The Forgotten Predator
by Witticaster Cole
Summary: When half a dead woman is found in the woods outside Beacon Hills, Special Agents Stilinski and Martin return to their hometown to investigate. Eventual Derek/Stiles, AU.
1. Autumn Moon

**Notes:** Clearly, I have made some bad decisions. Beta by the lovely Dusty, who for some reason puts up with my crap.

_**The Forgotten Predator**_

**Chapter One: Autumn Moon**

It's coming up on three in the morning when the jeep pulls into the diner's parking lot. The car's a big black official-looking beast with Virginia plates and a bent front bumper from where the minotaur hit it last week.

Two suits—a man and a woman—walk into the diner and settle into one of the booths by the windows. Their waitress is a Lamia: her makeup is starting to wear off, iridescent scales at the edge of her jaw glimmering under the fluorescent lights, and a sticker on her name tag explains that she's mute but will be happy to take your order.

The guy in the suit smiles at the waitress and orders a coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. His partner doesn't look up from her phone and asks for water.

The guy shakes his head at her after the waitress leaves. "Water? Seriously?"

"We're going to be scouring the woods for a days-old dead body, Stiles. I don't want anything in my stomach for that."

Several minutes later, a pickup pulls up outside. It's one owner away from new, and that owner piles into the diner with three of his buddies, all of them bored rich kids. The waitress drops off the coffee, eggs, and a glass of water, then strides toward the teenagers as they park themselves in front of the bar.

Stiles digs into the eggs. His partner puts the phone down and rolls her eyes at him, elegantly-manicured nails drumming against the Formica tabletop.

"Special Agent Stilinski," she says, as part of her eternal campaign to become his _mother_, "you're eating all-night diner eggs at 3 AM. I want you to look back on the decisions that led you to this moment."

"Oh, fuck off, Lydia." He's about to say more, but one of the teenagers starts yelling.

"Hey, what is your problem?" the truck's owner snaps, looming over the waitress. She flinches away, bringing her notepad up as a barrier between them.

Stiles drops the fork and stands.

His partner sees the look on his face, sighs, and picks up her phone again. "Paperwork, Stiles."

"I'm just gonna talk to him." Stiles steps up behind the kid and taps him on the shoulder. "Hey, buddy, I think maybe you should stop scaring the waitress."

The kid spins around. He's taller than Stiles, and significantly wider. Also, he's wearing a polo. Stiles hates him instantly. "Back off, man," the kid says. "This is none of your business."

"Yeah, well, if I didn't stick my nose in everyone's business I'd be out of a job. I think you and your friends should leave. You're causing a disturbance."

"Go fuck yourself."

Stiles considers pulling his badge on the guy, but then he sees the waitress' face. She doesn't look so scared anymore.

A high, sharp whistle rends the air, loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Stiles winces. The kids yelp and cover their ears. The waitress' eyes are bright green, pupils split like a lizard's, and she glares at the pack of teenagers like she's trying to explode their brains inside their heads.

It doesn't take long for the kids to leave after that. Stiles can smell burning rubber as the pickup peels out of the parking lot.

The waitress' eyes return to normal and she gives Stiles an apologetic smile.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. She whistles happily at him and goes to brew another pot of coffee.

ʘ

Beacon Hills is a Californian industrial town that, in the early '90s, became inexplicably attractive to middle-to-upper class families looking to get away from "the city." It's just big enough to warrant its own police department, and at mid-afternoon a black jeep pulls up outside the police station.

The sheriff's in his office when two feds in suits breeze past his secretary. One of them drops into the chair in front of his desk. "Hello, Sheriff."

"Agent Stilinski. What can I do for you?"

Stiles sprawls in the chair, every inch the insolent little shit. "That bisected human body you found out on the preserve caught the interest of my department. We're just going to conduct a routine assessment, make sure there's no need for the FDSI to intervene."

"Is that so?" The sheriff stares him down for a few more seconds before he finally cracks a smile. "You could've told me you were coming, Stiles."

"But then it wouldn't be a surprise!" Stiles steps around the desk and pulls the sheriff into a hug. "Dad, this is Special Agent Lydia Martin. You might remember her. Lydia, this is Sheriff Stilinski."

"Sheriff," Lydia says, offering her hand.

Sheriff Stilinski shakes it. "Agent Martin. I remember ticketing a few of your boyfriends back in the day. I hope you've been keeping my son out of trouble."

"Oh, I've been trying."

Stiles claps his hands together. "Right, okay, let's break this up before you two start conspiring against me. Dad, what's the status of this Jane Doe case?"

Sheriff Stilinski settles back behind his desk. "Not much more than was in the report. Two joggers found the lower half of a woman's body in the woods yesterday. We organized a search for the upper half, with no results. You two got here awful fast."

"We were in the neighborhood," Lydia replies with a shrug.

"Anyway," Sheriff Stilinski continues, "that's about it. Medical examiner found wolf hairs on the body, so we're considering the possibility that this was an animal attack. I don't see what's got the FDSI so interested."

Stiles rocks on his heels and says, "FDSI files designate Beacon Hills as an 'area of interest.'"

"Why?"

"Classified," Lydia cuts in, with a glare in Stiles' direction.

"Besides, there's so few murders around here anyway. I wanted to be absolutely sure," Stiles says.

Sheriff Stilinski chuckles. "You sure you didn't just want to pay your hometown a visit?"

Stiles scoffs. "My crappy little hometown where nothing happens and everyone's weirdly obsessed with lacrosse? Yeah, no, totally business."

"Sure, sure."

ʘ

That afternoon, Stiles pulls into the parking lot of Beacon Hills High and parks by the bike rack. A few minutes later, lacrosse practice lets out, and a 16-year-old who vaguely resembles a lost puppy makes a beeline for the bike rack.

Stiles steps out of the jeep and yells, "Scott!"

Scott looks around, confused, then grins as he spots Stiles. "What are you doing here?" he yells as he runs over.

"I'm in town, figured I'd check up on you. Jesus, you're huge. Whatever happened to the scrawny little Scott McCall who used to follow me around everywhere? What have you done with him?" Stiles reaches over and ruffles Scott's hair. Scott grumbles and ducks away.

"Are you here because of the body in the woods?" Scott asks. He looks nervous.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Try to keep secrets in a small town, see where that gets you. "You heard about that, huh?"

"So you're doing an investigation, then?" Scott hasn't stopped looking nervous. It's a little disconcerting.

"Assessment, actually."

"What's the difference?"

"The assessment determines whether there's going to be an investigation. Listen, are you okay?"

Scott jumps a little. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little excited."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Uh huh."

"No, really. I made first line on the lacrosse team."

"That's my boy!" Stiles says, and claps Scott on the shoulder. He doesn't get lacrosse, or the importance of high school sports in general, but he's happy for the kid. "Now stop trying to distract me. What's got you so jumpy?"

He can see the gears turning in Scott's head. Slowly, because while he likes Scott, the kid isn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Finally, Scott says, "I was out in the woods last night."

"_What?_"

"I just... I remembered all your stories from when you used to follow your dad around while he did police stuff, and I heard about the search party, and I figured..." Scott shrugs. "Nothing happens around here anyway."

"Jesus, couldn't you have gone to the arcade or something?"

"I know, I know, but..." Scott takes a breath. "Stiles, this is important. I think I found the other half of the body."

Stiles immediately turns Scott around and steers him toward the jeep. "Show me where."

ʘ

"But it was right here!"

Stiles looks around. Sun. Trees. Dead leaves. No body. "Are you sure?"

"I remember falling down that hill," Scott insists. Of course he does. "This was right where I found it."

"Okay," Stiles says, kneeling and brushing at the leaf litter. He can see dots of blood on the leaves, and scores in the dirt. "It's possible an animal grabbed the body and moved it somewhere else to snack on. You couldn't have told someone about this earlier?"

Scott looks like a kicked puppy. "I didn't want to get in trouble."

Stiles stares at him for a moment. "... You are such a teenager."

"What are you doing?" someone yells.

There's a guy standing further up the hill: dark hair, dark clothes, pissed-off look on his face. He looks familiar.

"Police business," Stiles says, more out of habit than anything else. "Nothing to see here, move along."

"This is private property," the guy growls, and _now_ Stiles recognizes him.

"Not anymore it isn't," Stiles replies, trying not to be smug and failing. "State sold it to the county last year. That's what happens when you don't pay your property taxes, Mr. Hale."

The guy glares even harder, then digs something out of his pocket. He tosses it at Scott, who catches it easily. Then he turns and storms off, leaves crunching underfoot.

Stiles looks at Scott, who's turning a small plastic object over in his hands. "Dude, is that your inhaler?"

Scott looks down at the thing like he's never seen it before. "... Yeah. I must've dropped it last night."

"How did you not die at lacrosse practice without your inhaler?"

Scott shrugs. "I don't need it anymore."

"You don't... what? Since when? Last night?"

"It's not important!" Scott snaps. "Who was that guy?"

Stiles looks back in the direction the guy went. "Derek Hale. Remember that house fire, about six years back? Almost everyone inside burned to death. Derek and his sister only survived 'cause they were in school at the time."

"Shit," Scott says quietly.

"Yeah. I thought the Hales left town years ago, though. I guess Derek's back." Stiles considers for a moment, then starts walking. "Come on, let's get back to the car. I don't think we're gonna find any dead bodies today, and you're late for work."

ʘ

The next night, after continued fruitless searching for the other half of the body, Lydia moves them from the motel they'd been staying at to another hotel, closer to the center of town. It's one of those adorable faux-bed-and-breakfast places right on Beacon Hills' main street.

"Why can't we stay at the Motel 6 again?" Stiles asks as he drags his suitcase up the stairs. No elevator, naturally, and it's late. The other guests are probably going to file complaints about the racket he's making.

"If we're running around the woods all day looking for body parts, then I am _not_ staying in a crappy motel on the edge of town," Lydia hisses. She's already had the hotel staff move her bags up. "You've seen what happens to my hair when we do that."

"Louisiana did some pretty horrible shit to your hair, and I don't remember you being this prissy about it."

"Nobody knew me in Louisiana, Stiles. I didn't have a reputation to maintain."

Stiles smirks and takes a break from suitcase-wrangling. "What, you didn't want to look pretty for the swamp monster? Not even after he tried to have weird, hallucinogenic sex with you?"

Lydia sighs. "I don't know _how _it mistook me for its girlfriend. My hair isn't even the right color."

Stiles finally reaches his room and dumps the suitcase on the bed. Lydia's got the next room over, and they have an adjoining door. The room itself is... well, "quaint" is probably the best word for it. It's kind of a refreshing change from cheap motels and sleeping in the car.

"So Derek Hale," Lydia says, gracefully folding into a chair.

"What about him?" Stiles asks, glaring at his suitcase. Why did he put it on the bed? He'll just have to move it again. Fuck.

Lydia twirls a lock of hair around her finger. She's set it free from the regulation ponytail. "Angsty orphan shows up in town around the same time as dead bodies. What do we think?"

"We think based on _evidence_, Lydia," Stiles replies. "Although there might be a connection there. Let's make sure Mr. Hale doesn't slip under the radar."

Stiles' phone rings. He answers, not bothering to look at the Caller ID. "Agent Stilinski."

"Stiles?"

"Scott? What's up? You don't sound too good." Lydia rolls her eyes and leaves, walking through the door to her room and closing it behind her. She is apparently not in the mood for teenage shenanigans.

Scott sounds _wrecked_, his voice rough. "I think I need you to come get me."

Oh, shit. "Where are you?" Stiles asks urgently, already grabbing his keys.

"At a party. Something's wrong. I don't... Please come get me." Scott rattles off the address, and Stiles dashes down the stairs at top speed.

Yeah, he's definitely going to get some noise complaints.

ʘ

The house is on the edge of the woods, one of those big, obnoxious McMansions that seemed to appear out of thin air during the population boom. The party's in full swing, the air filled with chirpy pop music and drunk teenagers yelling. Stiles charges up the steps, rings the doorbell, and flashes his badge at the kid who answers.

"Oh, shit," the kid says.

"Yeah," Stiles replies.

The party clears out almost comically fast after that, especially once Stiles starts shouting.

"And if I catch any of you drunk shitheads behind the wheel of a car, you're all going straight to Guantanamo Bay!" he barks at the retreating teenagers, then heads up the stairs. He can hear running water.

He finds Scott huddled shirtless in the shower, flushed and shaking. The dial's spun all the way to "cold." Stiles turns the water off and kneels next to his friend.

"What did you take?" he asks quietly, careful not to startle the kid.

Scott shakes his head, still braced between his knees. "Didn't take anything," he mumbles. "I don't know what's happening to me..."

Stiles sighs and grabs a towel from the rack. He bundles Scott down the stairs, past a confused-looking kid eating string cheese in the living room.

"I thought I told you assholes to clear out. What are you still doing here?" he snaps at the kid.

"I live here," the kid says.

"... Okay, fair enough." He pushes Scott out the door and towards the jeep. "Scott. Did you drive here?"

Scott nods, then freezes. "Allison," he says.

"Who's Allison?"

"I'm here with her. Where is she?"

Scott's agitated, looking downright panicky as Stiles settles him in the passenger seat of the Jeep. "Listen, stay here," Stiles says. "I'm gonna go check, okay? Just calm down."

The kid with the string cheese is still there when Stiles gets back to the house. "Hey, listen, do you know a girl named Allison? She came here with Scott."

The kid nods. "Yeah, she got a ride home. Some dude with a leather jacket."

There's a downright god-awful noise from outside, like a pit bull and a wolverine had a baby and somebody hit that baby in the balls with a cattle prod. Stiles runs back out to the jeep.

Scott's gone.

He can see someone running into the forest, hunched over and snarling. Someone missing a shirt.

Stiles grabs his sidearm out of the locker in the trunk and follows Scott into the woods.

ʘ

Stiles' job requires that he do a lot of running. It never stops being fucking horrible.

Scott's leaving a hell of a trail behind him, kicked-up leaves and dirt and... are those _claw marks_ on the trees? Jesus Christ.

He's been at this for almost fifteen minutes when he sees a flash go off in the distance. Not gunfire, it's too bright. Some kind of flare. Stiles hears Scott scream. He puts his head down and runs faster.

Scott's arm is pinned to a tree; there's an arrow through it. Three guys are advancing on him, armed with what Stiles really hopes are not crossbows but probably are. He draws his gun.

"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!"

One of the guys turns his crossbow on Stiles. Stiles fires a warning shot over their heads. Fuck. He really didn't want to file a Weapons Discharge Report tonight.

The guy standing closest to Scott says something to the others, and as one they turn and run off. Stiles considers chasing them down, but Scott makes the most pathetic noise he's ever heard and Stiles figures he's got more important things to do right now.

Scott flinches as Stiles steps closer. "Easy, Scott," Stiles says. "It's me."

The arrow's pierced through Scott's forearm and buried deep in the tree behind him. It's fiberglass, so he can't just break the thing. Stiles really hopes the tip isn't barbed.

"Get it out," Scott whimpers. Stiles wonders what kind of sick bastard shoots a 16-year-old kid with a _crossbow_.

"I'm going to try, okay?" Stiles says, stepping closer. He pulls a latex glove from his pocket. That arrow is evidence. "We might have to wait for a—"

"_Get it out!_" Scott howls, deep and inhuman, and Stiles experiences a brief moment of pants-shitting terror.

In a series of quick motions, he braces Scott's arm against the tree, grabs the arrow as far down the shaft as he can with the glove covering his fingers, and _yanks_, hard. The tip, thank god, isn't barbed, and slides free of the tree and Scott's arm.

Stiles drops the arrow and pulls off his tie, pressing it to the hole in Scott's arm. "Okay, Scott, I have a first aid kit in the car, we just have to keep the pressure on until—"

"I think it's okay," Scott mumbles.

"Yeah, well, I'm not taking any chances, there's all sorts of _really important arteries_—"

"No, really," Scott says. "I think it's okay."

Stiles lifts the tie. The wound has stopped bleeding. He can actually see the edges of the hole close up and start to knit together.

"Scott," he says. "I think we need to talk."

ʘ

Stiles tightens his hands on the steering wheel and doesn't look at Scott. If he looks at Scott, he'll start yelling.

"So let me get this straight. You were bitten by a wild animal out in the woods, you _work for a __vet_, and you _didn't think to get the bite checked out?_"

"I didn't want to get in trouble for sneaking out," Scott replies.

"_Fucking teenagers_," Stiles hisses. "Okay, so you're out looking for the other half of the body, and... _something_... bites you. The wound heals the next day, all of a sudden you don't need your inhaler any more..."

"... I start to be really good at lacrosse..."

"Okay, fine, you're awesome at lacrosse out of fucking nowhere, then you're at a party on the full moon, you freak out, grow claws, and run off into the woods looking for this girl you were at the party with..."

"Only Allison's not there. Just her jacket," Scott says. "And then Derek showed up."

Stiles nearly crashes the jeep. "_What?_"

"Derek was there. He took Allison's jacket." He can hear Scott fidgeting. "He says the bite is a gift."

Stiles takes a few deep breaths. "So how do we get from Derek being a creeper in the woods to you getting shot at with crossbows?"

"Those guys showed up while I was talking to Derek. He ran."

"Right." Stiles runs a hand over his eyes and finally looks at Scott. "Did you get a good look at any of them? Do you think you would recognize them again?"

Scott thinks for a moment, then nods. "I think so."

"Okay, good."

They drive in silence for a few moments.

"... Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"What's happening to me?"

"Well, if I had to guess, Scott, I'd say you're a werewolf."

"... _What?_"


	2. Nothing But Harm

**Notes:** This chapter beta'd by my long-suffering roommate.

**Chapter Two: Nothing But Harm**

The assessment is now officially an investigation.

By Monday, Stiles and Lydia have set up their own office in the police station. Technically, it's the Lost and Found room, but Stiles keeps calling it "the office." Partly to sound more professional, mostly because it annoys the hell out of Lydia.

The arrow Stiles pulled from Scott's arm has been sitting in a plastic bag on Stiles' desk for the whole weekend. That afternoon, the courier comes by to pick it up and take it to Sacramento for processing.

"How long until we get the results back?" Lydia asks. There's an old case file on her desk, and she's spent most of the day flipping through it.

"A few weeks."

Lydia looks up at him from under her eyebrows. It reminds Stiles of something out of a Kubrick movie. "A few _weeks_?"

Stiles shrugs. "There's a backlog."

"We're FDSI, Stiles. We don't _wait in line_." Lydia utters the words "wait in line" like most people would say "lick bus windows."

"This time we do," Stiles says. "We haven't made any enemies around here yet, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Lydia _hmphs_ and turns her attention back to the case file.

"What is that, anyway?" Stiles asks.

"The Hale house fire," Lydia replies. "I got curious."

Stiles' phone rings. It's Scott.

The first words Stiles hears after he picks up are, "_Allison's father!_" yelled at a volume that would cause hearing loss in lesser mortals. Stiles holds the phone away from his ear.

"What about him, Scott?"

"Allison's dad came to pick her up from school! It's him, it's the guy from the woods! He _shot_ me with a _crossbow_!"

Stiles grabs his keys and heads out the door. "What's Allison's address? I'm headed over there right now."

"What?" Scott yelps. "Why?"

"_To arrest him_, dumbass. Shooting people is kind of illegal in this country."

"You can't arrest him!" Scott's freaking out even more, if that's possible. "He didn't recognize me. If you arrest him because of me, he'll know I'm... that I'm a..."

"A werewolf?"

He can hear Scott breathing down the line, like he's trying to calm himself down. It occurs to Stiles that riling up the teenage werewolf maybe isn't such a hot idea.

"Scott, listen. Calm down. I'm not going to arrest Allison's dad, okay? Not yet." Stiles steps back into the office and closes the door. He's supposed to keep the local police from getting too involved in his investigation, and yelling about werewolves in the hallway isn't exactly conducive to that.

"Okay," Scott says. His breathing's starting to even out. "What do I do?"

"Go to lacrosse practice, make puppy dog eyes at Allison, whatever. Just act natural." Stiles winces. This is _Scott_, after all. "Don't act too hard. Just... don't worry about it, okay? I've got this."

"Are you coming to the game on Wednesday?"

Oh, fuck. Stiles forgot. "Of course, it's your first game. Wouldn't miss it. I'll see you later, okay?"

He hangs up and turns to Lydia. "How much of that did you hear?"

"All of it."

"Right. I need a favor."

ʘ

Lydia presses the doorbell and waits, pulling her sleeves down and smoothing out her jacket. The door swings open a few seconds later, revealing a man in his 40s with unsettlingly intense eyes. Lydia flashes her badge.

"You're Chris Argent, correct?"

"Yes," Argent says.

"And the other residents of this house, they would be Victoria and Allison Argent?"

"That's correct."

Lydia smiles. "I'm Agent Martin, with the Federal Department of Special Investigations."

Argent steps outside and closes the door behind him. "What can I do for you, Miss Martin?"

"_Agent_ Martin," Lydia replies, the smile still on her face but her voice cold. "You and your family just moved to Beacon Hills, correct?"

"That's right." Argent crosses his arms. "I have to say, Agent Martin, I'm not familiar with your department. What's this about?"

"Oh, just a routine check. We're looking into anyone who arrived in town within the last week."

"As in, around the same time as that dead woman turned up in the woods?" Argent's got an unreadable look on his face. "I thought that was an animal attack."

"It probably is, but..." Lydia leans in close. "We like to pursue _every_ avenue of investigation. Tell me, Mr. Argent, where were you last Tuesday night?"

Lydia can see Argent's jaw shift. "At home, with my wife and daughter. Unpacking."

"Of course." Lydia hands him her card. "If you think of anything you think we should know, do give me a call. Thanks for your time."

Argent watches her stride back to the black jeep parked at the end of the street, then shoves the card in his back pocket.

ʘ

The McCall house is just like Stiles remembers it, right down to the doorbell that never works on the first try. Scott's mom answers the door and smiles as soon as she sees him. "Stiles!"

"Hey, Melissa." Stiles gives her a hug.

"Scott said you were in town. How long are you here for?"

Stiles shrugs. "Hard to say, really. We could solve the case tomorrow, for all I know."

"Are you here to talk to Scott?" Melissa looks concerned. "He just got home from lacrosse practice. Apparently there was an... incident."

"Yeah, actually. I just got a text from him."

Melissa nods. "He's upstairs in his room. Don't leave without saying goodbye, young man."

"Yes, ma'am."

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time and finds Scott sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking miserable.

"Scott? I got your message. What's wrong?"

"I separated Jackson's shoulder," Scott says quietly.

"Jackson? Captain of the lacrosse team Jackson?" Stiles sits down next to Scott. "Are you in trouble?"

Scott shakes his head. "It's a contact sport."

"Right. Is that it?"

"No." Scott starts picking at his nails. "I freaked out at practice. Started to change. After I hit Jackson, I ran to the locker room. Derek was there."

"_Derek fucking Hale_ was in the boys' locker room at the school?" Stiles remembers that Scott's mom is still in the house and lowers his voice. "That... that's a little Bad Touch, Scott."

"He says I won't be able to control myself during the game on Wednesday. That I'll shift in front of everyone." Scott takes a breath. "He says he'll kill me if I try to play."

"Oh, shit." Stiles considers calling Lydia and getting her to arrest Derek, but judging by Scott's reaction to Mr. Argent earlier, the kid would probably refuse to press charges. They wouldn't be able to hold Derek. "Scott, he's not getting anywhere near you, okay? But he's got a point. Maybe you shouldn't play."

"_I can't skip the game!_" Scott hisses. "Allison's gonna be there, and—"

Stiles rubs a hand over his eyes. "Can we maybe shift our priorities away from your girlfriend for a bit?" Scott gives him the horrible kicked-puppy look, but Stiles is a_ goddamn federal agent_ and will not be held to the whims of a 16-year-old. "Stop that. I'm serious."

"Fine," Scott says. Oh, great. Now he's going to sulk.

"Talk to the coach tomorrow. Tell him you can't play."

Scott nods. "What about Derek?"

"Don't worry about Derek. I'll take care of it."

ʘ

"I want the curfew implemented as soon as possible for anyone under 18," Sheriff Stilinski says. He, Stiles, and Principal Chaney are parked just outside the principal's office, which probably isn't the best place for this conversation but the contractors are still doing asbestos removal on the office ceilings.

"And you're in favor of this, Agent Stilinski?" Principal Chaney says.

"For now? Yeah. It won't be for long, just until we're sure there won't be any more animal attacks." With luck, the curfew will keep Scott home and away from anyone he might hurt.

The principal looks between the Sheriff and Stiles, then sighs. "I'll make the announcement. It's not like they don't hate me already."

As the principal leaves, Sheriff Stilinski says, "You coming back to the station, Stiles?"

"Not yet," Stiles replies. "Go without me."

Stiles heads over to the gym and catches Scott as the kid's leaving Coach Finstock's office. "So how'd he take it?"

"Not good," Scott says. "Coach says if I skip the game tomorrow, I'm off first line. Back on the bench."

Stiles sighs. "Sorry to hear that, man. I'm sure you'll get another chance, though, I mean you're still—"

"I'm playing tomorrow."

"_What?_"

Scott glares at Stiles. "I'm not going to let Derek ruin my life."

"This isn't about _Derek_, asshat, it's about _you_. If you get your adrenaline up and change, you could seriously hurt somebody."

But Stiles doesn't have Scott's attention any more. He's looking past Stiles. There's a girl walking down the hall, a black jacket folded over her arms. Scott sets his jaw and pushes past Stiles.

"Teenagers," Stiles mutters, feeling like a grumpy old man.

ʘ

There's a copse of trees right next to Beacon Hills High that's technically off school property and therefore exempt from the campus-wide smoking ban. Its most prominent feature is a little bridge over a creek that dried up years ago, and the space underneath has been referred to as "the Smoking Hole" for as long as Stiles can remember.

The path is overgrown from an entire summer of neglect, and Stiles kind of wishes he had a machete as he pushes through the growth and steps under the bridge.

This was one of Stiles' regular hangouts, until he figured out that mixing nicotine and Adderall was a horrible fucking idea. The year he graduated, he climbed down here with a paint marker and scrawled a line he'd read in some obscure Hunter S. Thompson interview on the underside of the bridge. It's still there, though a little faded:

_If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up_.

Stiles doesn't know how long he spends wallowing in his nostalgia, but he snaps out of it as a tall, pretty, dark-haired girl stumbles down the path. She notices him and freezes, like a startled deer.

It occurs to Stiles that he's seen her before, and then it hits him: this is the girl Scott was staring at earlier.

"You're Allison, right?" Stiles says, after a short leap of logic. He is, ostensibly, a detective.

"Uh, yeah," she replies. "You're that fed, right? The one who was at the school today."

"Agent Stilinski," Stiles says by way of confirmation. Allison moves to shake his hand, then remembers the cigarette between her fingers and hastily shoves it in a pocket. Stiles raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment.

"Is everything okay?" Allison says. "I mean, you're not looking for a dead body down here, are you?"

Stiles grins. "Nah. I used to go to school here, actually. Figured I'd revisit some of the old haunts."

Allison looks relieved. "That must seem like such a long time ago. I mean—not that I'm saying you're—"

Stiles' phone rings, thankfully cutting off Allison's downward spiral. "It's fine," Stiles says with a reassuring laugh. "I've got to take this, excuse me."

He answers the call as he climbs back up the ridge. "Agent Stilinski."

"Derek buried something at the Hale house."

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear, checks the caller ID, then says, "Scott?"

"Allison had her jacket back so I went over to Derek's to tell him to stay away from her and I could smell blood and there's dirt piled up like someone was digging and _I think that's where the rest of the body is,_" Scott says, all in one breath.

"You went over to Derek's after he threatened to kill you? Are you insane?"

"_Stiles!_"

"Okay, okay." Stiles rubs a hand over his mouth. "Where, exactly, did you see the dig site?"

"Right next to the house," Scott says.

"I'll have a look," Stiles says, heading for the parking lot. "Don't go back there, Scott. I mean it."

Scott hangs up instead of answering.

ʘ

"You're sure this is legal?" Lydia says, fussing with her ponytail. It's almost midnight. They're sat in the jeep with the lights off, waiting for Derek to leave the house. Both Stiles and Lydia are in street clothes that can stand a bit of abuse; they've only got so many suits, and dry-cleaning is expensive.

"I double-checked the records. All of this is county property as of last year." The burned-out husk of the Hale house sits on the hill like a pile of old bones. From what Scott's said, Derek is apparently _living_ here right now. Jesus Christ.

There's a black '09 Camaro sitting in front of the house, still in remarkably good condition considering where it's been parked for the last week or so. After a few minutes, Derek exits the house and lopes toward the car, getting in and driving down the dirt road towards the highway.

Stiles and Lydia pile out of the car and grab the shovels.

There's disturbed earth by the northwest corner of the house. Lydia lets out a long-suffering sigh, and they start to dig.

They're about three feet down when Stiles' shovel hits something that isn't dirt. Stiles brushes the soil away with his hands to reveal a bundle, wrapped in sackcloth and bound in twine. Lydia pulls a switchblade from her pocket and cuts the ties. Stiles twitches the bundle open.

There's a wolf's head wrapped inside.

"Hmm," Lydia says.

"That's it? That's all you've got? 'Hmm?'"

Lydia reaches up and unwraps more of the bundle, revealing the wolf's neck, shoulders, and forelegs. The animal's fur is black, unless that's the dirt.

"This isn't a normal wolf," Lydia says. She points, like she's in a biology lab somewhere and not in a hole next to a burned-out house in the woods. "See the shoulder blades? Those aren't the shoulders of a quadruped. They're almost like a human's. And the front paws are all wrong."

"So... a werewolf, then?"

Lydia shrugs. "It's a theory."

Stiles glances up to make sure Derek hasn't suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and the light from his flashlight lands on something purple. A flower.

"Lydia," he says, tapping her on the shoulder. She stands, and he points his flashlight at the flower. "What plant is that?"

Lydia squints in the darkness for few seconds, thinks, then says, "_Aconitum lycoctonum_. That's not supposed to be here."

"What, it's not native to California?"

"Not native to North America," Lydia corrects. She elbows him, hard. "Stiles. The common name for this species is 'Northern Wolfsbane.'"

Stiles climbs out of the hole and kneels next to the flower. It's small, probably very young, and looks freshly planted. Stiles can see something tied to the stem...

He digs his fingers into the dirt and pulls. There's a rope attached to the plant. Stiles keeps pulling; the rope runs under the dirt, back towards the grave.

"You were one of those kids who wouldn't stop pulling at a loose thread until the entire sweater was destroyed, weren't you?" Lydia says, still in the hole, hands on her hips. Stiles shushes her and keeps going.

The rope's been buried in a spiral around the grave, and around the second loop Lydia looks down at the body and says, "Stiles, you should come look at this."

The werewolf isn't a wolf anymore. It's half of a woman.

"Think that's our Jane Doe?" Stiles says.

"_What are you doing?_"

Stiles spins around, a hand on his holster. Derek Hale is standing not ten feet away. Stiles didn't hear the car come back. Fuck.

"Federal agents. Put your hands on your head and lie down on the ground," Stiles snaps. He can hear Lydia climbing out of the hole behind him.

"_What?_" Derek growls, and takes a step closer. His teeth lengthen and his eyes glow blue.

Stiles draws and aims at Derek. He doesn't put his finger on the trigger. Yet. "You're under arrest for murder. Get down on the ground with your hands behind your head, or I will be forced to shoot you."

Derek's gaze flicks from the gun, to the grave, to (presumably) Lydia. He looks like he's considering.

Slowly, Derek lifts his hands and puts them behind his head.

ʘ

The police station's interrogation rooms were renovated last year, but the shiny newness is somewhat mitigated by the old, piece-of-crap tape recorder on the table. Derek Hale's hands are cuffed to the tabletop, which he appears to be trying to glare holes into. He's been in custody all night.

Stiles enters the room and closes the door behind him, file under his arm. "Good morning, Mr. Hale."

Derek turns his glare on Stiles, who ignores it and sits at the opposite side of the table from Derek. He drops the file on the tabletop and hits "record" on the tape deck.

"I don't actually like having the table in here," Stiles says. "I think creates this psychological barrier between me and the other guy, but my partner says that's an outdated bullshit theory and the Sheriff said 'no' when I asked to have it moved out. I can't work under these conditions."

Silence.

"Anyway, hi. I'm Special Agent Stilinski, FDSI. We've met already, but I don't think there's been an opportunity to get properly introduced, what with you getting indicted and all."

Derek looks him over, then says, "Aren't you a little young to be a fed?"

"FDSI recruits early," Stiles says with an insolent grin. "We're a crack team of highly-gifted toddlers. Besides, if I remember right, you're only about a year older than me, so quit yelling at me to get off your lawn."

Derek doesn't say anything, just looks back down at the table. Stiles hits "stop" on the tape recorder.

"I bet you think you've got the upper hand here," Stiles says. "I mean, there's no way my feeble little human brain's gonna make the connections, right? We'll explain it away with wild animal attacks and hallucinogens in the water." He leans forward. "Mr. Hale, last month I met a woman who could tell you the exact time and date of your death, right down the minute. The week before that I helped capture a giant catfish that lived under a town in Kentucky and caused earthquakes every time it moved. And I just got done chasing a _minotaur_ up and down the west coast. I have to admit, though, you're my first werewolf."

Derek flinches back like he's been hit. His head shoots up, and he's glaring daggers at Stiles. His eyes are electric blue.

Stiles flips open the file. "So the woman we found, the other werewolf. Why'd you kill her? Was it a territory thing? Someone started sniffing around your old hometown, so you had to come back and teach them a lesson?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Derek hisses.

"Not yet, no. But, as my partner can attest, once I've set my mind to figuring something out, there's no stopping me. I'm like a dog with a bone." Stiles smirks. "I guess that's something we've got in common."

"Why are you even bothering with me?" Derek snaps. "You should be more worried about your little friend."

"Oh, I'm plenty worried, trust me. You know what's got me really worried? The fact that a certain wolfy individual _bit him_ and is now threatening to _kill him_."

"When he shifts on the field, what do you think's going to happen?" Derek leans forward as far as the cuffs will let him. "I can't stop him. You can. And trust me, you _really_ want to."

ʘ

The bleachers are just as shitty and uncomfortable as Stiles remembers. He's got his phone to one ear and a finger in the other, trying to filter out the noise from the crowd. The game's about to start.

"—is putting together the autopsy report now," Lydia is saying. She's back at the police station, keeping an eye on their new friend. "What's the plan over there?"

"Right now the plan boils down to 'keep an eye on Scott,'" Stiles replies. His phone beeps at him. It's been dying for the last couple of hours. "If he starts to change, I'll intervene."

"Intervene how?"

"I haven't decided yet. Any ideas?"

"Shoot him," Lydia says, and hangs up. Stiles' phone gives one last, sad chirp and dies.

The game starts, and Scott... is not doing great. In fact, he's sucking pretty hard.

Until suddenly he isn't.

Hell, by the third quarter, the kid's practically parkouring across the field. At one point, Stiles is pretty sure a member of the opposing team actually passes Scott the ball.

Stiles gets as close to the field as he can without drawing attention to himself. From here, Scott looks pretty normal, but less than a minute before the end of the game he gets hold of the ball and stops fifteen feet from the goal.

Scott's looking between the goalie and another member of the other team, who Stiles recognizes as a player who'd checked Scott pretty hard earlier in the game. It's like Scott can't decide who he's going to—oh, shit.

Stiles is at the edge of the field when Scott decides. The ball goes sailing into the goal. Beacon Hills wins.

In the ensuing commotion, Stiles can see Scott booking it away from the field, headed back towards the school. He's about to follow when someone grabs him by the elbow.

"Why is your phone off?" Lydia barks at him.

"It's dead," Stiles says. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"Autopsy report came in. Coroner ruled the cause of death as an animal attack. As far as the local police know, Derek Hale isn't an animal, which means—"

"Which means he's been released," Stiles says with a groan.

"That's not the worst part."

"How is that possibly not the worst part?"

Lydia tells him.

ʘ

He finds Scott in the locker room, with Allison. They're engaged in what Stiles would normally call a Public Display of Affection, although to be fair they probably thought they were in private.

Stiles clears his throat. Loudly.

Scott and Allison leap apart like someone just put 9000 volts through them. Allison smiles shyly and flees the room.

"She kissed me," Scott says, a dreamy look on his face. Stiles feels like an absolute shithead for ruining this moment.

"Bad news," Stiles says. "Derek Hale's been released."

Scott comes down from his high pretty quickly after that. "What? How?"

"Coroner says the cause of death is animal, not human. Derek is, in the public eye, human and not animal. We couldn't hold him."

Scott runs his fingers through his hair. The sweat makes it stand up on end. "Any other great news?"

"Oh, yeah. The victim? Her name's Laura Hale." Stiles can see Scott's internal hamster wheel spinning away, and heads it off at the pass.

"She's Derek's sister."


	3. Heaven Help You

**Notes:** This chapter beta'd by Poicephalus, who is a perfect human being.

**Chapter Three: Heaven Help You**

"Stiles, wake up."

Lydia is standing over his bed, fully dressed. Her hair is perfect, her makeup is perfect, and if Stiles hadn't grown up with the woman he'd be pretty sure his partner was built in a top-secret government factory somewhere.

He groans and pulls the covers over his head, rolling over onto his stomach. Five minutes later, he peeks out from under the duvet. Lydia's still standing there, tapping away at her phone. "I'm just going to stand here until you get up, Stiles."

"Jesus fuck, okay." Stiles shoves the covers off and sits up. "What time is it?" he mumbles, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. It's like they're trying to escape from his head.

"Almost six."

"... I hate you."

Lydia waves her phone at him. "I just got a call from dispatch. There's been some kind of animal attack at the school."

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink into Stiles' sleep-muddled brain. "... Okay. Give me a couple of minutes and we'll head over."

Lydia steps through the door between their rooms, then pokes her head back in. "You should really try the Uberman sleep schedule, Stiles. You'd get more work done."

"I'll pass, Lydia, thank you, now get out."

ʘ

"Animal attack" is an understatement.

The site of the attack is a yellow school bus parked out behind Beacon Hills High. The bus windows are splattered with a frankly _ludicrous_ amount of blood, the seats are clawed up (one was even torn loose from its mooring and thrown) and the back door has almost been ripped from its hinges.

The victim is alive. Barely.

The janitor came across the scene first and called it in, and Lydia's taking his statement now. Stiles is examining the bus when Sheriff Stilinski approaches.

"This part of yours?" the sheriff says.

The bus' back door looks like a half-chewed pig's ear, only a bit less slimy. "I think we can assume that for now, yeah," Stiles says. "However, any assistance processing the scene would be greatly appreciated, Sheriff."

Sheriff Stilinski snorts. "That your way of saying you want my boys to handle the clean-up, son?"

"That obvious, huh?"

Stiles spots Scott at the edge of the parking lot. "Hold down the fort here, would you?" he says to the sheriff. "I'll be right back."

"Is Allison okay?" Scott says as soon as Stiles is in range.

"I have no idea," Stiles replies absently. "What are you doing out here? You should be in class."

Scott shakes his head. "I can't. I have to be sure..." he pauses, and Stiles turns around. The paramedics are wheeling a gurney into the ambulance, with their victim strapped to it: Garrison Myers, 53 years old, bus driver. Scott's obviously confused. "That's not Allison."

"No, it's not," Stiles says carefully. "What made you think it was?"

The bell rings. Scott grimaces. "Can we talk later? Lunch?"

"Yeah, sure." Stiles grabs Scott's bag as the kid turns away. "What's this about, Scott?"

Scott looks between the bus, the ambulance, and Stiles. "I think maybe I did this."

ʘ

Several minutes after the lunch bell, Scott meets Stiles on the bleachers next to the lacrosse field. Stiles hands him a sandwich he grabbed from the deli with the papier-mâché _Augustus of Prima Porta_ replica out front. He remembers how shitty the cafeteria food is at this school.

"How's the bus driver?" Scott says, eagerly unwrapping the sandwich. From the looks of it, the possibility he tried to kill someone hasn't ruined his appetite.

"Stable, for now," Stiles says. "Scott, what makes you think you attacked this guy?"

"I had this dream." Scott puts the sandwich down and starts picking at his nails. "About Allison."

Oh, here we go. "And?"

"We were in the bus, we were kissing, and then I lost control and I..."

"You what? Ate her?"

"I don't know!" Scott snaps. "That's when I woke up. Or whatever. It was the _same bus_, Stiles."

"Stop right there," Stiles says. "Scott, I've known you for eight years. I would know if you're a killer, and you're not. If you can't trust yourself, at least trust me."

"But what if it's not me? I'm a..."

"Werewolf."

"Shh!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Scott, there's nobody here. We'd know if someone were eavesdropping, between your wolfy senses and my trained observational—"

"Agent Martin sneaks up on you all the time," Scott points out.

"Lydia doesn't count. Listen, if you're worried about losing it and going all 'WOLF SMASH' on people, maybe you should cancel your date with Allison on Friday."

Scott chews his lower lip and nods. After a few seconds, he says, "Maybe I should ask Derek for advice."

Stiles slaps him upside the head.

ʘ

The Beacon Hills Animal Clinic is a small operation run by a very serene veterinarian named Deaton. It's even got one of those little bells over the front door, which Lydia sets off as she enters the clinic.

"I'm in the back," comes a voice from the door beyond the main desk.

"Dr. Deaton?" Lydia says as she steps through the doorway. Deaton is putting away a new shipment of supplies along with his assistant. "Hello, Scott."

"Agent Martin!" Scott yelps, and almost drops the box he's holding. "What are you doing here?"

"Department business." Lydia shows Deaton her badge. "Doctor, I'm Special Agent Lydia Martin. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to look at something for me."

"Of course," Deaton says. "What is it?"

Lydia hands him the file under her arm. "I'm sure you've already heard about the animal attack at the school this morning. I was hoping to get your opinion on the victim's injuries."

Deaton flips the file open. "I'll have a look, but I'm not sure I'll be much help. I mostly treat cats and dogs."

"I'd be grateful for any insight you could offer, Doctor," Lydia says with a practiced smile. "You take a few minutes with that. I can keep myself entertained."

Deaton wanders back into the reception area, reading. Lydia turns to Scott. "So Stiles tells me you're finally dating, Scott."

"Uh, yeah, sort of," Scott says.

"It must be difficult."

"I... guess? What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know," Lydia says, examining her nails, "finding things to do together with a curfew in place. Kind of limits your options, doesn't it?"

Scott's expression is not unlike that of a household pet caught raiding the garbage. "Yeah, sure. I mean, well... yeah."

"This is an interesting case you've got here, Agent Martin," Deaton says, re-entering the room.

"How so?" Lydia asks, turning on her heel to face the doctor. Scott exhales loudly and goes back to shelving.

Deaton closes the file and hands it back to Lydia. "Most of the time with attacks like this, the victim would have been bitten at least once. Here, he's just been clawed. No bite marks whatsoever."

"Does that mean you can't identify the attacker?" Lydia asks.

"I can't pin down for sure what the animal was, but from the claw marks, I'd be inclined to say these injuries were caused by a mountain lion."

"But we found wolf hairs on the body," Lydia says.

There's a crash from behind Lydia. "What?" Scott clears his throat. "I mean, I think I read somewhere that there aren't any wolves in California."

Deaton shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, Agent Martin. Either your victim owns a wolf fur rug and got mauled by a cougar, or your attacker is a wolf with an identity crisis."

"I see." Lydia tucks the file under her arm. "Thank you for your time, Doctor. Scott, I'll be seeing you."

"Yeah," Scott croaks. "I mean. Bye, Agent Martin."

ʘ

While stable, Garrison Myers hasn't been lucid enough to answer questions yet. By noon the next day, Stiles has taken to hanging around the hospital, waiting for news. The nurses hate him now.

He's read every pamphlet they've got in the waiting area and steadfastly ignores the "No Cell Phones, Please" signs so he can surf the Internet on his phone. He's been trapped in a TVTropes vortex for God knows how long when an alarm goes off in Garrison Myers' room.

Stiles follows at the nurses' heels and bursts into the room. Scott's standing at the edge of the bed. Myers has Scott's sleeve in a death grip, and he's _screaming_. Stiles wrests Scott's arm out of Myers' grasp and ushers the kid out while the nurses do their jobs.

"What the hell was that? Why are you here?"

Scott still looks a little shaken. "I came by to ask Mom for the car, and I wanted to see..."

"Why do you need your mom's car?" Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott. "Are you and Allison still going out tomorrow? I thought you canceled on her."

"I tried, but then Jackson invited himself and if I don't go then it'll just be him and Allison."

Stiles waits for a second for Scott to continue, but he doesn't. "Scott, is that seriously the end of that story? Who cares if Jackson and Allison hang out?"

Scott looks at Stiles like he's an idiot, then huffs and walks away.

One of the nurses taps Stiles on the elbow. "We had to sedate Mr. Myers," she says. "You should get some rest, Agent Stilinski. You won't be getting anything from him today."

Stiles sighs. "Can you call me if—"

"Of course," the nurse says, ushering him out the door.

ʘ

"Please tell me you've at least considered the possibility," Lydia says as she walks into Stiles' hotel room, arms full of files and Chinese take-out.

Stiles gets up to help her with the bags. "The possibility of what?"

Lydia dumps everything on Stiles' bed and turns to him, crossing her arms. "That Scott McCall may have actually attacked someone."

"Lydia—"

"No. You listen. I know you're fond of the family, but we have no idea what the psychological effects of Scott's condition are." Her voice softens, slightly. "We've ruled out every wild animal in the state. We know the attacker is a werewolf. And Scott's hurt people before."

"He smacked a few kids on the lacrosse field. He's never actually _mauled _anyone." Stiles starts digging take-out containers out of the plastic bags on his bed and placing them on the table by the window.

"Okay, thought experiment. Theoretically, if Garrison Myers wakes up tomorrow and points the finger at Scott McCall, what do we do?"

Stiles pauses and takes a deep breath, staring out the window. "... We arrest him. Legally, the attack could be considered some kind of psychotic episode. I don't think he'd be responsible for his actions, but that's ultimately for the courts to decide. And he's a minor, so..." He trails off.

Lydia settles in one of the chairs by the window. "And if Scott doesn't come quietly?"

"Lydia—"

"_Stiles_." Lydia gives him that _Clockwork Orange_ under-the-eyebrows glare. Stiles sits across from her and avoids looking at her face, not that it helps. He can _feel_ her contempt.

"I guess we tranquilize him." He thinks for a moment. "Would tranquilizers even work on him? I guess we should look into things that can incapacitate werewolves."

"I'll do some digging," Lydia says idly, like they're not talking about shooting Stiles' pseudo-little brother full of propiomazine hydrochloride. "One more thing. Have you considered sending for a replacement? You're a little too close to this case, Stiles."

Stiles sighs and reaches for the sweet and sour pork. "I thought about it, yeah. Thing is, the local police are being so cooperative here because they know us. They trust us. Bringing in a different team at this point would cause more complications than this case can afford." He grabs a fork and starts shoveling food into his mouth. "Besides, somebody needs to keep an eye on Scott."

Lydia gives an unladylike snort.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you even know where he is right now?"

Fuck. Stiles reaches for his phone and calls Scott. After the third ring and no answer, he gets up and starts to pace.

The call goes to voicemail, and Stiles hangs up and calls again. Still no answer.

Lydia's glaring at him again. "Don't tell me you lost the teenage attempted murder suspect werewolf."

"Not lost. Temporarily misplaced." Stiles grabs his laptop off the side table. Scott's phone is ringing, which means it's still on. Stiles brings up the service provider's website and guesses at Scott's password (cringing as he does so).

Lydia looks over his shoulder. "Is that legal?"

"I won't try to use it in court if you won't." Stiles traces the GPS chip in Scott's phone and stares at his computer, waiting for it to explain. "What's he doing at the impound lot?"

"You mean the impound lot where we're keeping the mangled school bus?"

"... Oh, shit." Stiles slams the laptop shut and heads out the door. "I'll be right back."

"I'm eating all the shrimp!" Lydia yells after him.

ʘ

When Stiles pulls up to the impound lot, he can see Scott's bike sitting by the gate. There's someone moving around inside the bus.

Stiles steps out of the jeep. The lock on the gate is still intact, so Scott must have climbed over the fence. Stiles isn't feeling very charitable right now. Leaning back into the car, he presses on the horn, once.

Even from here, he can hear Scott scream in fright.

Scott pokes his head out of the bus' mangled back door, and Stiles waves him over. Once Scott's in range, Stiles says, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"It's... kind of a long story," Scott says.

"Is this the kind of long story that means I don't get to charge you with evidence tampering?"

Scott stops just on the other side of the fence from Stiles. "Okay, well, I went over to Derek's—_don't look at me like that—_and he said that if I came back here and used my senses I'd be able to see what really happened, so I did, and..."

Stiles crosses his arms. "And?" The words "tranquilizer gun" briefly float through his mind.

"I didn't attack the bus driver," Scott says quickly, picking up on Stiles' apprehension. "I was trying to save him. I think Derek was there—"

"Are you sure?"

"It was another werewolf," Scott says. "He was trying to kill the bus driver."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Stiles says, then shakes his head. "Whatever, I'm not having the rest of this conversation through a fence. Be over here, now."

Scott scrambles up the fence with surprising ease and drops down on the other side. Right, werewolf powers. "What doesn't make any sense?" he says as soon as his feet hit dirt.

"Why would Derek tell you to come here and relive an event he was already there for? If he's not worried about keeping secrets, why wouldn't he tell you as soon as you asked?"

"Stiles, you're missing the point here."

Stiles sighs. "Okay, what's the point here?"

"I can go out with Allison tomorrow!"

Stiles can feel the headache coming on.

ʘ

The nurses chase Stiles out of the building when he walks into the hospital the next morning. That afternoon, he sneaks in via the loading docks and bribes Melissa with gelato to keep her coworkers away from him.

This time, Stiles also brought his copy of _The Last Words of Notable People_. He's up to Douglas Fairbanks ("I've never felt better.") when he sees a familiar leather jacket go by.

"Mr. Hale!"

Derek stops, but doesn't turn around. Stiles considers the direction Derek came from and makes a guess. "Is Meyers a friend of yours, Mr. Hale?"

Stiles can see Derek's shoulders move under the jacket. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You just came out of his room. He's not a very good conversationalist at the moment. You should try again later."

Derek turns around, slowly. Stiles closes the book and stands, leaving it on his seat. "What do you want, Agent Stilinski?" Derek says carefully.

Stiles looks around to make sure nobody's listening in at the moment. "We know Mr. Meyers' attacker was a werewolf, and the list of werewolves in the area is pretty short." Stiles steps closer. "I'm going to ask you this once: did you try to kill Garrison Myers?"

Derek's jaw clenches. "No."

"Did you kill Laura Hale?"

"No."

"Who did?"

Derek lunges forward. Stiles takes an involuntary step back. "You're afraid of me," Derek growls. "Every time I see you, I can smell it on you. _Why don't you act like it?_"

Stiles blinks. "Is that a trick question?"

They stand like that for a few seconds, then Derek turns and walks away.

Stiles picks up the book again and sits back down, wondering when this became his life.

ʘ

Lydia has been tailing Scott since he left the school.

After class let out, Scott went straight home. After a few hours he left again and met up with Allison and another boy, Jackson, at the bowling alley. Lydia parked herself by the bar. That was a half hour ago. She's in civvies, and judging by how much Allison and Scott have been staring at each other, she won't be noticed any time soon.

Jackson sits next to her at the bar. He orders a soda, then looks her up and down. "Agent Martin?"

"Off-duty," Lydia says, taking a sip of her drink.

Jackson looks over at Scott and Allison, then back at her. "Yeah, I don't think so."

Lydia shrugs and decides to ignore the kid until he goes away. He's cute, in a "could play James Dean in a TV movie" kind of way, but he's also sixteen and she's working.

Jackson, however, is not content to be ignored. "So what is it, some kind of super soldier thing?"

Lydia raises an eyebrow at him. "Pardon?"

"McCall," Jackson says, jerking his head in Scott's direction. "At first I thought it was steroids, but now I'm thinking it's something... weirder. Same day he's kicking ass out of nowhere on the lacrosse field, two feds from a department nobody's ever heard of show up in town..." He trails off and looks at Lydia expectantly.

"Hmm," Lydia says.

"Tell me," Jackson says. He looks like he's trying to intimidate her. "What's so interesting about Scott McCall?"

Lydia smiles. "It's Jackson, right? Jackson Whittemore?" When he nods, she says, "Do your parents know you're out after curfew, Jackson?"

Jackson grabs his soda and leaves.

ʘ

It's another hour before Scott walks Allison back to her door. There's even a kiss goodnight, which is kind of sickeningly adorable. Lydia leans up against the side of the car she borrowed from the police department, and Scott spots her as he walks away from Allison's house.

"What are you doing here?" he hisses at her from across the road.

Lydia gives him a little wave and doesn't answer.

Scott crosses the street. "Are you following me?"

"Yes," Lydia says.

"_Why_ are you following me?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Why do you think, Scott?"

Scott sputters for a second, and Lydia's phone rings. She answers it, holding up a finger to silence Scott. "Hello, Stiles. Scott says 'hi.'"

"So he saw you, then?" Stiles says.

"Eventually. How's Mr. Meyers?"

"Not good. He went into cardiac arrest ten minutes ago." She can hear his sigh of frustration down the line. "Garrison Myers is dead."

"_What?_" Scott growls. His voice is low, and his eyes are glowing yellow.

Lydia edges away from him. "Stiles, I think we may have a situation here."

But Scott isn't paying any attention to her. With a low snarl, he darts away down the street.

"Lydia?" Stiles says. "What's going on?"

"I think he just shifted and ran away," Lydia replies, getting into the car.

"Yeah, he does that. I think I know where he's going, though."

ʘ

Stiles pulls up in front of the Hale house and immediately notices the door's been kicked in. He can hear crashing and other noises coming from inside the house, like two animals are fighting.

Well. Not quite animals.

Stiles checks to make sure his gun is loaded and gets out of the jeep.

There's two werewolves fighting in the living room when Stiles steps through the front door. Derek's got Scott by the neck and is slamming his head against the floor, repeatedly. Stiles draws his gun.

"Drop him, Mr. Hale," he barks.

Derek freezes and looks up. He's fully shifted: fangs, pointed ears, weird brow ridge, blazing blue eyes and all. Stiles hasn't got his finger on the trigger yet, but he's seriously considering it.

"Let him go," Stiles says. "I don't know if this thing can even hurt you, but I'm willing to find out."

With a dismissive sniff, Derek releases Scott's neck and steps back. He rolls his shoulders like he's working a kink out of them, and his face returns to normal. The noises are... not pleasant.

"This is all his fault!" Scott gasps, dragging himself to his feet. "He killed the driver!"

"No, I didn't," Derek says evenly. He looks at Stiles. "I told you. I didn't kill Meyers, and I didn't kill Laura."

"You ruined my life!" Scott howls.

"I didn't bite you," Derek says.

"_What?_"

"There's another werewolf," Stiles says. He lowers the gun. "That's it, isn't it? There's a third werewolf in Beacon Hills. The one who bit Scott and killed Garrison Myers."

Derek watches Stiles for a moment, like he's trying to decide how much to tell him. "It's called an Alpha."

Scott and Derek as werewolves don't look like Laura Hale had as a werewolf. She'd been much furrier. Among other things. Stiles holsters the gun. "So the Alphas are the big furry monsters, then?" Derek nods. "Your sister, Laura. She was an Alpha too, wasn't she?"

Derek nods again. "She came here looking for him. Now I'm trying to find him." He looks at Scott. "He bit you, so now you're part of his pack. He needs you.

"And you can lead me right to him."


	4. The Wolfbane Blooms

**Notes:** Beta'd by Dusty. Chapter warning for pseudo-science bullshit and Derek's really nasty infected arm.

**Chapter Four: The Wolfbane Blooms**

It's two in the morning. Stiles has been awake for 19 hours.

Stiles' bed is covered in books from the Beacon Hills Public Library, photocopies, and yellow legal pads. His laptop sits on the table by the window, and there is some truly horrifying werewolf porn in his browser history. Round about 11:00 PM, Stiles and Lydia broke out the dry-erase markers and have been using the window as an impromptu whiteboard ever since.

"Okay, obvious question: what do we think about silver?" Stiles spins a nearly-empty marker between his fingers.

"Could be some kind of metal allergy," Lydia says, "but in several mythologies, silver is linked with the moon. It's possible the 'silver bullet' myth is nothing more than a bit of thematic poetry."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Let's put that one in the 'maybe' column." Stiles chews on the marker cap for a second. "We know wolfsbane has some kind of effect."

"There are multiple species of wolfsbane, though. Different species could have different effects."

Stiles groans. "So far this report boils down to, 'Hey, werewolves exist! Here's a bunch of werewolf legends. Your guess is as good as ours.'"

"Well, we're currently on speaking terms with two live werewolves," Lydia says. "We could always ask them."

"One of those werewolves is newly-turned and completely clueless, and the other one doesn't strike me as the 'sharing' type. I think we're on our own here."

Lydia sighs. "Fine. I suppose even Mr. Hale wouldn't be able to answer the big question."

"... Okay, I'll bite. What's the big question?"

Lydia grabs a marker and writes "Species or Syndrome?" on the window, then underlines it.

Stiles blinks at the window. "Huh."

"I'm curious about whether the changes brought on by lycanthropy are genetic or not," Lydia says, "and how extensive those genetic changes might be. Are werewolves capable of interbreeding with humans?"

"That... is not a question I'm inclined to ask our consulting werewolves any time soon." Stiles thinks for a moment. "I'm not sure we should call lycanthropy a medical condition. Scott told me Derek Hale was born a werewolf."

"Certain diseases can be passed from a mother to her offspring. Congenital syphilis, for instance."

"... Good point." Stiles uncaps his marker and writes "congenital syphilis" on the window. "What about that pack structure thing they've got going on? I'm not sure a virus or whatever would cause that." He thinks for a second. "Maybe split the difference for now? Call them a subspecies until we've got more information?"

"That works." Lydia flips back a few pages in her notes. "So this Alpha. You said there were distinct anatomical differences between Alphas and other werewolves?"

"Laura Hale was an Alpha. Remember how she looked before we cleared that wolfsbane? That's our model. Scott and Derek Hale are rocking more of a Lon Chaney, Jr. look." Stiles checks his own notes. "Derek called himself a 'Beta.' That's a wolf thing, right? Alphas, Betas, Omegas, that kind of stuff?"

"In captive wolf populations, yes. Pack structure in the wild is much more fluid." Lydia taps her pen against her lower lip. "This kind of rigid social stratification might be a hominid influence more than a canine one."

"My God, you're like the David Attenborough of freaky paranormal shit."

Lydia's phone rings, and she rolls her eyes at him as she answers it. "Agent Martin."

There's a lot of talking on the other end, and then she says, "We'll be right there."

"Problem?" Stiles says as Lydia hangs up.

"Shots fired at the iron works."

ʘ

The sheriff and a few of his officers are already there when Stiles and Lydia arrive at the iron works.

"You should be in bed!" Stiles yells at the sheriff as he gets out of the jeep.

"So should you!" Sheriff Stilinski shouts back.

"Yeah, well, I'm pulling an all-nighter and Agent Martin doesn't sleep, so..." Stiles looks around. The ambulance has pulled in from around the corner, but the paramedics inside look pretty bored. "All clear, then? And no victim?"

"The dogs found some fresh blood further in, but that's about it," the sheriff says.

"I've got broken auto glass over here!" Lydia yells from the road.

"Who called it in?" Stiles asks the sheriff.

"Security guard. Says he heard maybe three shots. He's gone home for the night, but we can bring him in later."

Stiles rubs at his eyes and really wishes caffeine worked properly on him. "Aside from the gunshots, did the guard see or hear anything else?"

"Yeah," Sheriff Stilinski says, like this part of the story offends him on a personal level. "He swore blind he could hear a wolf howling."

Stiles immediately grabs his phone. "Excuse me for a second. I need to make a call." He walks out of the officers' hearing range and calls Scott.

When Scott answers, he sounds a little too awake. "Yeah?"

"Scott, tell me you're at home right now."

"I am," Scott says, then yawns. "Now."

"'Now?' What do you mean, 'now?'" Stiles can see the blood on the asphalt from here. He starts to pace.

"I was at the iron works earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"About half an hour ago. I heard the Alpha."

Stiles scrubs a hand over his hair. "You're okay, right? You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," Scott says, sounding confused. "I wandered around for a while and went home."

"Okay." Stiles exhales and tries to get his heart rate back down. "Okay. Hey, next time you hear the murderous Alpha werewolf howling, maybe stay home?"

"I'll try," Scott says, and hangs up.

"'I'll try?' What does that even—dammit." Stiles glares at his phone and shoves it back in his pocket.

ʘ

Even from his hiding spot between two crates, Derek can smell the worry and stress rolling off Agent Stilinski in waves.

Derek stays very still, doesn't make any noise, doesn't even breathe too loud. He can't scare Stilinski off his trail like he did with the dogs. He presses the heel of his hand against the wound in his left arm. The bullet went deep and hit the bone. Derek can barely move the fingers of his left hand.

The bleeding has stopped, but the wound isn't healing.

Agent Martin approaches, the _click-click-click_ of her shoes louder than it should be. Derek winces and shakes his head. She's holding an evidence bag. "Three shots fired. Two from a shotgun, one from some kind of rifle."

Stilinski puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "Scott was out here. Said he heard the Alpha. I guess that's our howling wolf. Any theories?"

Martin scans the area, hesitating for a moment as her eyes move over Derek's hiding spot. Derek shrinks further into the shadows. "Some kind of altercation between the Alpha and the hunters, maybe," she says.

"We're out here for no reason, aren't we?" Stilinski says.

"Possibly." Martin gives an exasperated sigh. "Another thing to add to the charge list if we ever arrest Chris Argent."

"Assault with a deadly weapon, possession of said unregistered deadly weapons, and causing a public disturbance. Sounds about right." Stilinski turns around and heads back the way they came. "Come on. This was a neat study break, but we've got actual work to do."

ʘ

Stiles and Lydia don't leave the hotel again until that afternoon, when Lydia gets a call from the police station. They've got a package waiting for them from Sacramento.

They pile into the jeep, start to pull out of the parking lot, and then Derek fucking Hale steps out in front of the car.

Stiles slams on the brakes. "Oh my God!"

Derek wobbles a bit, then falls over.

Stiles kills the engine, leaps out of the jeep, and kneels next to Derek. Lydia comes around from the other side.

"What are you doing here, Hale?" Stiles says.

Derek doesn't answer. He's sweating, pale, and clutching his left arm.

"He doesn't look too good, Stiles," Lydia says.

"I was shot," Derek gasps.

Stiles does a quick check of the parking lot. Aside from themselves, it's completely empty.

"Lydia, help me get him inside."

ʘ

It's the middle of the day, so they manage to get Derek up the stairs and into Stiles' hotel room without being seen. Stiles starts to pull Derek towards the bed, but Lydia stops him. "Not the bed," she snaps.

"Why not?"

Lydia gives Stiles her patented _I-am-surrounded-by-morons_ look. "Do _you_ want to explain to the maids why they're washing bloodstains out of the sheets?"

"... Good point."

Derek says, "Why does it say 'congenital syphilis' on your window?"

"Long story." Stiles drags Derek into the bathroom and lowers him into the tub.

Derek rolls up his sleeve. There's a bullet embedded in the inside of his left forearm. The skin around the bullet is swollen, and the blood vessels surrounding it are an angry red.

"That is disgusting," Stiles groans.

"That is _fascinating_," Lydia says.

Stiles stares at her a moment, then says, "Okay, all we need to do is dig the bullet out and you'll heal on your own, right?"

Derek shakes his head. "It won't heal. This isn't a normal bullet."

Lydia kneels next to the tub and turns Derek's arm into the light. "Really? What kind of round is this?"

"I don't know." Derek looks up at Stiles. "I need you to go to the Argents' house. Confiscate their ammunition supply, find out what kind of bullet they used."

"Did you see the person who shot you?" Stiles asks.

"I know it was one of the Argents."

"That's not what I asked. I asked if you saw who it was."

"No."

Stiles sighs. "Then I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's against a shitload of really important laws, that's why not!"

"I need that bullet," Derek growls. "I don't care how you get it."

Lydia lets go of Derek's arm and stands. "Scott's close to Chris Argent's daughter, isn't he?"

Stiles crosses his arms. "I know what you're thinking, and it's a bad idea."

"It's a terrible idea," Derek adds. "He's an idiot."

"Don't talk about him like that," Stiles snaps.

"Both of you shut up," Lydia says. "Stiles, we don't have any other options at the moment."

"Fine, I'll call him." Stiles steps into the hall.

Scott answers on the second ring. "Stiles?"

"I need your help," Stiles says. "Derek's been shot. I need you to go to the Argents'."

"Why are you helping Derek?" Scott sounds a little disgusted.

"Because it's my job. Can you go to Allison's house or not?"

There's a loud rattle as Scott closes his locker. "I'm going over after school. We're studying together."

"Okay. Once you're there, I need you to find their ammunition supply. Specifically, whatever special rounds they use for werewolves. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, sure," Scott says. "I have to go."

"Keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Yeah." Scott hangs up.

Stiles steps back into the room just as Lydia is on her way out.

"I'm going to the station to pick up our package," Lydia says. "Stay here with Mr. Hale. I'll bring back one of the station's first aid kits."

"Be careful," Stiles tells her.

"I always am."

ʘ

The lady at the desk is very understanding when Stiles goes downstairs to ask for an ice pack. She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a plastic baggie full of ice and wrapped in a tea towel, which isn't exactly what Stiles was asking for, but he'll take what he can get.

When Stiles gets back to the hotel room, Derek is exactly where he left him: sitting in the bathtub with his arm cradled to his chest.

Stiles holds out the ice pack. "This should reduce the swelling a bit, maybe even help with the pain. I'd offer you painkillers, but I have no idea what your metabolism's like."

"I'm fine," Derek grits out. He keeps his arm pressed close to his body and doesn't move to take the ice pack.

Stiles sighs. "Look, just give me your arm." He moves to grab Derek's wrist, and Derek flinches away. "Seriously? I'm not going to hurt you. Let me help."

"I said I'm fine," Derek growls. "Leave it."

Something's wrong. Stiles quickly grabs Derek's wrist and turns his forearm so he can see the bullet wound.

Whatever the bullet did to Derek's arm, the effect is spreading. The blood vessels in Derek's forearm are livid, and the infection spiders up his arm just past his elbow.

"Get out of the tub," Stiles says.

Derek snatches his arm back. "No."

Stiles points at Derek's arm. "That's septicemia, okay? We need to get you horizontal. Now."

Between the two of them, they manage to get Derek out of the tub and lay him on his back on the bathroom floor. Stiles darts out of the bathroom, turns the thermostat down as low as it will go, and cranks up the air conditioning.

Stepping back into the bathroom, Stiles says, "Okay, don't panic."

Derek snorts. "Stop trying to be reassuring. I know it's bad."

"I'm not trying to reassure you. I'm literally telling you not to panic." Stiles sits on the floor next to Derek. "We need to keep you at rest. It'll slow the spread of the infection, or poison, or whatever it is."

They sit like that for a few minutes, in silence. Finally, Derek says, "So you and Agent Martin."

Stiles knows where this is going. "What about us?"

"Are you two..." Derek trails off and looks at Stiles expectantly.

"Mr. Hale, are you asking me if I'm having sex with my partner?"

Derek shrugs.

Stiles smirks. "Nah. I mean, I carried a torch for a while—"

"'A while?'"

"Ten years, give or take. I got over it. Besides, Lydia prefers big dumb meatheads she can manipulate to her heart's content. And I haven't had sex with a woman since we arrested that anglerfish monster in San Diego." Stiles nudges Derek's side with his foot. "Since we're sharing, what about you?"

"I don't have anyone," Derek says, and turns his head to stare at the wall.

A few awkward seconds go by.

Stiles clears his throat. "Hey, since you're here. Do you think you could answer a few questions for me, Mr. Hale?"

"You keep calling me that."

"Because I'm a government employee and there's a bunch of handbooks that say I should. People usually don't like to be on first name terms with their civil servants." Stiles leans back against the sink cabinet. "So. Questions?"

"About what?"

"Werewolves, mostly."

Derek looks back at Stiles and raises his eyebrows. "I can't really be your first werewolf."

"Actually, yes, you are." Stiles says. "I mean, there was this one guy whose wife claimed he disappeared one night a month, but he was just part of a sex cult that broke into an alpaca farm every four weeks. That year Lydia wore a Peruvian sweater to the company Christmas party and I had to spend the rest of the night drinking vodka in the men's washroom."

"Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"

"Every day of my life."

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Ask."

"All right. Silver, yes or no?"

"No."

"Wolfsbane?"

"Depends on the type."

"Right. Lydia will be happy about that one." Stiles cringes internally. "Speaking of Lydia, she wants to know if werewolves can breed with humans."

Derek stares at Stiles for a very long time. "... Why the _hell_ would she need to know that?"

"To settle an argument, mostly. Look, this information could save agents' lives."

"I don't think that particular detail would help much."

"Probably not, but you never know." Stiles leans forward again. "Look, the hardest part of our job is figuring out how accurate the legends are. What parts are true, what parts are exaggerated, and what parts are just crap somebody invented to make the story more interesting. The smallest detail can unravel a lot of bullshit."

Derek glares at the ceiling. "Yes."

"'Yes' what?"

"Yes, werewolves and humans can breed. Some of my family were human. My father was."

"No reproductive isolation. Got it." Stiles checks his phone. No new messages. He calls Scott, but there's no answer. "If he's making out with Allison right now while I sit in a frigid hotel bathroom with a sick werewolf, we are going to have _words_ later."

ʘ

Lydia returns about an hour later, with the promised first aid kit.

"Forensics report came back on that crossbow bolt you sent in," she says as she kneels next to Derek. She's managed to procure a pair of needle-nose pliers from _somewhere_, and Derek eyes her warily.

"And?" Stiles says from the doorway.

"Custom made, no fingerprints." Lydia examines the infection in Derek's arm. "This showed up quickly."

"So the arrow's a dead end, then." Stiles sits on the floor and watches as Lydia sterilizes the pliers.

"More or less." Lydia frowns as Derek pulls his arm out of her reach. "Mr. Hale, I can't get the bullet out of your arm if you keep doing that."

"It won't help," Derek says quietly. He's been getting weaker and more lethargic over the course of the afternoon.

"Leaving it in isn't doing you any favors," Lydia says. Her tone brooks no argument. "Now give me your arm."

Derek glares at her. Lydia glares right back.

Reluctantly, Derek lets her take his wrist and move his arm where she wants it.

It takes a bit of twisting and pulling to pry the bullet loose from the bone. Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't make any noise at all, just stares at the ceiling and breathes. Lydia finally manages to extract the bullet, drops it on the floor next to her, and bandages the wound.

"It still won't heal," Derek says. "Not until we find out what poison the bullet was packed with, and get the antidote."

Stiles calls Scott again. He actually gets an answer this time. "Any updates?"

"Do you have _any_ idea how many bullets are in this house?" Scott hisses.

"We're running out of time, Scott."

"I'm not even sure why I'm doing this." Scott's whispering, for some reason.

Stiles resists the urge to yell. "Because Derek might die."

"Why do we have a problem with that?"

Derek reaches for Stiles. "Give me the phone," he says.

"What? No. Scott, listen—"

Derek surges up and snatches the phone from Stiles' hand. "Scott, if I die, you're on your own against the Alpha," he snarls. "He'll call you out, and if you don't kill with him, he'll kill you. How does that sound?"

Stiles snatches his phone back. "Hale, if you don't stay lying down, I will sit on you." He puts the phone to his ear. "Scott, you still there?"

"I have to go," Scott says.

"Right, okay. Find the bullet. Please."

ʘ

Stiles heads downstairs to return the desk lady's tea towel, and when he gets back, Lydia's got one of the legal pads on her knee and is taking notes on Derek's condition.

"There are no words," Stiles says.

Lydia looks up. "This is very informative, actually."

"Is she always like this?" Derek asks.

"Pretty much." Stiles' phone buzzes. There's a new text message from Scott. "'Nordic blue monkshood.' Does that mean anything to you?"

"It's a type of wolfsbane," Derek says. "Rare. He needs to bring the bullet here."

Stiles sends his reply to Scott: _Get here. Now. Bring bullet._

"If he doesn't get here in time," Derek pants, "I need you to cut off my arm."

For a few seconds, Stiles' brain stops. The hamster has fallen off the wheel. Once he's got his mental functions back, he says, "You _what?_"

"I'm dead if the wolfsbane reaches my heart. If you need to amputate my arm to keep me alive, do it." Derek's giving him this intense stare. Good god, he's serious.

"Amputate with _what?_" Stiles yelps. "I don't exactly have a bone saw in my suitcase. What do you want me to do, _shoot_ your arm off?"

"If you have to," Derek says.

"Oh my God."

This is the worst experience of Stiles' life. And that includes the alpaca farm.

ʘ

Scott shows up just as Derek is throwing up in Stiles' lap.

"Boy, am I glad to see you!" Stiles barks. He grabs a towel and tries to wipe the vomit off his pants. It's black, and sludgy, and... yeah, not pretty. These slacks are probably done for.

"Why is it so cold in here?" Scott asks.

"Because science," Stiles replies. "Bullet?"

Scott digs a rifle cartridge out of his pocket and hands it to Stiles. "They made me stay for dinner," he says by way of apology. "It was awful. Allison's aunt Kate is the scariest lady ever."

"_Who?_" Derek's got this look on his face, like he's simultaneously scared out of his mind and the most pissed off he's ever been in his life.

Scott blinks, confused. "Allison's dad's sister. Kate. She just arrived in town."

Derek's eyes flash blue, and he _snarls_, his teeth lengthening. His back arches up off the ground. He's _changing_, right here on the bathroom floor, and Stiles thinks, distantly, _we're supposed to be keeping his heart rate down_.

He leaps across Derek's chest, straddling him. Stiles uses his knees to pin Derek's arms to his sides, and yells, "Lydia, hold his legs down!"

Derek thrashes, trying to throw them off. Stiles grabs his shoulders. "Hale! Calm down!"

Stiles can feel Derek's pulse racing. At this rate, he'll be dead in a matter of minutes. If he doesn't kill everyone in the room first.

"Hale!"

Nothing.

"_Derek!_"

Derek freezes, panting. His eyes are still blue, and he's still got fangs, but he's stopped shifting.

Stiles holds the cartridge up in front of his face. "Tell me what to do with this."

Derek's fangs retract. "Open the cartridge and empty the bullet," he gasps.

Stiles moves off of Derek, and Lydia uses the pliers to pry the bullet loose from its casing. The underside of the bullet is hollow and has been packed with dried plant matter. Lydia grabs the soap dish off the bathroom counter and empties the bullet into it.

"Burn it," Derek says, ripping the bandage off his arm. Lydia pulls a lighter from her pocket and sets the contents of the soap dish ablaze. It sparks, and at first Stiles thinks there was a bit of gunpowder mixed in with the stuff, but then he notices the smoke is glowing blue. After a few seconds, the flame gutters out.

Derek holds out his right hand. "Here."

Lydia empties the contents of the dish into Derek's hand. He hesitates for a moment, then grinds the ashes into the bullet wound.

Stiles hears Derek scream for the first time. Derek thrashes again, like when he was changing, and for a second Stiles thinks something's gone horribly wrong.

Then he sees that the infection has faded from Derek's arm. The wound heals over without even a scar.

Stiles can't stop staring. "That was amazing and horrible at the same time." Gingerly, Derek moves to sit up. "Are you gonna be okay?" Stiles asks him.

"I'll live," Derek grumbles.

Scott hasn't moved from the doorway. "What the hell was that?"

Derek drags himself to his feet. "Nothing. It's fine."

"You almost lost control. You never do that." Scott growls low in his throat. "Stay away from my friends. That includes Stiles."

Derek takes a step towards Scott, fists clenched at his side "You don't get to decide that."

"Stay away from them," Scott says, "or I'll tell the Argents, and they'll _make_ you stay away."

"Okay!" Stiles leaps to his feet and steps between Scott and Derek. "We're gonna end this conversation right now. Lydia, can you drive Scott home? I'm sure he's had a long day."

Lydia doesn't say anything. She just smiles and grabs Scott by the arm, dragging him from the hotel room.

Stiles looks at the mess they've made of the bathroom floor, and decides to keep the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door handle for the foreseeable future. Between that and the screaming, the desk lady is probably adding a "Shitty Customer Fee" to the hotel bill at this very moment. "Is today over yet? I think today really needs to be over."

Derek still looks a little wobbly, but he heads straight for the door. "I owe you," he says.

"No, you don't." Stiles stops Derek with a hand on his arm. "You sure you're okay?"

Derek looks at Stiles over his shoulder. "I'll be fine."

"Want to talk about why you freaked out earlier?"

Derek shrugs off Stiles' hand. "No."

"Look, just... take care of yourself, okay?" Stiles says. "We need you."

Derek steps through the door and closes it behind him.

ʘ

Lydia drives Scott home in complete silence. When they pull up in front of Scott's house, Lydia kills the engine and says, "You seem quite fond of the Argents."

Scott shrugs, picking at his nails.

"Hmm." Lydia turns in her seat so she's facing Scott. "You remember the Hale fire, right? How most of Derek Hale's family died?"

"Yeah," Scott says warily.

"I've been studying the case file. Eleven people were trapped in the house when it went up. Ten died. The only survivor was Peter Hale, Derek's uncle. Peter's been catatonic ever since.

"The fire was officially ruled an accident, but when Laura Hale gave the police her statement, she claimed the family had enemies." Lydia taps Scott on the shoulder, making sure she's got his full attention. "She named Kate Argent, specifically. And Kate Argent left Beacon Hills less than a day after the fire."

Scott's mouth opens and closes a few times. "You can't prove anything."

"Not yet I can't," Lydia says. "But I think she's back in town to clean up her mess. Which means she made mistakes. And the longer she's in Beacon Hills, the more of those mistakes I'll find." She smiles, and there's no warmth in it. "I'll get her eventually."

"I take it back," Scott says. "_You're _the scariest lady ever."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Lydia leans over and opens the passenger-side door. "Go home, Scott."

Scott gets out and shuts the door behind him. Lydia drives away, turning the Hale case file over in her head.


	5. Against Superstition

**Notes:** So once you take all the "Scott and Allison frolic in the woods while chirpy pop music plays in the background" bits out of episode 5, there isn't a whole lot of plot left to work with. Beta by Dusty, who I continue to torment with my weird Canadian spelling.

**Chapter Five: Against Superstition**

Apparently it is Wrong, when driving past the old video rental store at 8 PM, to immediately pull in, call your partner, and chat loudly about what a shithole the place is while browsing the Horror section. If so, Lydia doesn't want to be Right.

"I can't believe this place is still open," Lydia says, laughing into her phone. "Can they not get Netflix in this town?"

"Why are you even in there?" Stiles asks. He's still at the station, working late.

Lydia pokes through a few of the DVDs. "Nostalgia, mostly. What a dump."

Stiles is trying to suppress a laugh. She can tell. "Lydia, I'm willing to bet there are people giving you the stink-eye right now."

"Please. Including me, there are three people in this building, and one of them works here."

Lydia can see Jackson Whittemore over in Romance, by the front windows, obviously trying to become invisible. It isn't working. The guy who works here leans heavily on the checkout desk, silently hating them both.

Stiles is starting to whine. "Okay, seriously, are you coming back with the food any time soon?"

"If you're about to faint from hunger, there's a bag of licorice in my desk," Lydia says. "Oh my god, they have _Sharktopus_."

The lights flicker, then cut out entirely. The emergency lamp in the corner of the store switches on, flooding the store with red light.

"Son of a bitch," the cashier mutters. He gets out from behind the desk and walks toward the back room. "I'll be right back. Don't steal anything."

"Everything okay over there?" Stiles asks.

"Just a blown breaker or something," Lydia replies, and heads for the door. "All right, I'm leaving. Chinese, right?"

"No, not Chinese. I specifically said to you, as you were leaving, not to buy any more fucking—"

There's a strangled scream from the back room, cut off too soon.

Lydia pulls the phone away from her ear and puts it on speaker. "Stiles, stay on the line." She pockets the phone and puts her hand on her holster.

Something's moving around in the back room, making snuffling noises and quiet growls.

Lydia risks a quick glance over her shoulder. Jackson's still here, by the windows. She puts herself between him and the back room.

The emergency lamp is a pain in the ass. Lydia's eyes aren't adjusting to the dark like they should. A shadow fills the doorway to the back room, and Lydia can't tell whether the light is fucking with her vision, or if the shadow's eyes are glowing red.

A low, menacing growl fills the room.

The shadow charges. Lydia draws and fires.

Lydia puts at least three bullets in the thing, but barely even slows it down. It backhands her as it passes. Lydia's head cracks against one of the shelves, and she crumples to the floor.

The whatever-it-is dives through the window, shattering it. Jackson screams and ducks away.

Lydia's phone has tumbled from her pocket, Stiles' tinny voice shouting down the line.

"Lydia, what's happening? _Lydia!_"

ʘ

Stiles is out of the squad car and halfway across the parking lot before the sheriff even kills the engine.

From here, Stiles can see Lydia sitting in the back of an ambulance, her legs dangling off the edge. One of the paramedics is talking to her.

"Hey, Stiles," Lydia says as Stiles stops in front of her. She slowly tips forward until her face is mashed against his chest.

Stiles pats her hesitantly on the shoulder and gives the paramedic a brittle, close-lipped smile. "Head injury?"

"Concussion, from the looks of it," the paramedic says. "She got knocked out. We're taking her back to the hospital, just to be safe."

"_Save me_," Lydia whines into Stiles' shirt. Stiles pats her on the head. She's going to murder him for that later, if she remembers.

From the looks of it, Sheriff Stilinski has finished talking to the responding officers. He heads their way. "What's the damage?" Stiles asks him.

"One dead body and one belligerent teenager," the sheriff says.

"Who's the teenager?"

And that's the moment when said teenager starts shouting. "I told you, I want to go home! Is that so hard to get through your stupid little mall-cop brains?"

"Jackson Whittemore," Sheriff Stilinski says, after the kid's wound down a bit. "You've probably heard of him."

"Scott's mentioned him a few times," Stiles says. "I take it he's okay?"

"Just a few scratches from the broken glass. He saw some kind of animal attack Agent Martin and bolt through the window."

"Alpha," Lydia mumbles.

Sheriff Stilinski raises his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"You should probably ignore that," Stiles says quickly. He waves the paramedic over. "I think my partner's ready to go to the hospital now. And if she offers to mix explosives for you, just say _no_."

"Sure," the paramedic says, clearly unimpressed.

Stiles leaves the medics to it and follows the yelling over to where one of the officers is taking Jackson Whittemore's statement.

It's not going well.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he barks at the officer.

Stiles sighs. Typical rich kid. He taps the officer on the shoulder. "Almost done?"

In response, the officer shoves his clipboard into Stiles' chest and walks away.

"Okay..." Stiles looks at the clipboard. The paperwork is more or less complete, so he puts the clipboard on the hood of the squad car behind him. "It's Jackson, right?"

"Am I done yet?" Jackson says by way of confirmation.

Stiles steps closer. He's got about an inch of height on the kid, and he's going to milk that for all its worth. "Look, I get that you're freaked out, and you don't like it, so you're acting pissed off to keep the fear down. But maybe it's a bad idea to verbally abuse officers of the law when you've been caught out after curfew? Just maybe?"

"The curfew's still on?"

"Yes, of _course_ the curfew's still—there's a dead body! Why would we rescind the curfew while people are still dying?"

Stiles hears his name being called. He looks over his shoulder; the sheriff is waving him over. "Okay. We're done here, Jackson. Go home."

For a second, Stiles thinks he can see movement on the roof of the store, but it's gone once he starts looking for it.

They've managed to get the lights back on inside the store. Stiles follows the sheriff into the back room, where the victim lies propped up against the wall. His throat's been clawed open.

"Jake Kerrigan, 33 years old," Sheriff Stilinski says. "I remember him. High school dropout, a few priors."

"Such as?" Stiles asks, crouching by the body.

"Trespassing, vandalism, arson."

Kerrigan's shirt is ripped clean down the front. "Did the paramedics do this?"

"Didn't need to. DOA."

The edge of another wound is just visible under the drape of the shirt. Stiles pulls a pen from his pocket and nudges the fabric aside.

There's a spiral carved into Kerrigan's chest, deep and jagged.

"Well, that _is_ interesting," Sheriff Stilinski says.

ʘ

The next day, Stiles stops by Beacon Hills High just before lunch period. The contractors have finished the office asbestos removal, but haven't bothered to clear out their equipment. There's a fine layer of plaster dust over everything.

He waves at the secretary. "Can you bring Scott McCall in for me?"

"I can try," the secretary says, "but he hasn't been in school all morning."

Oh, fuck. "You're sure?"

The secretary brings up the attendance records on her computer. "Scott McCall was reported absent for all his classes this morning."

"Great." Stiles turns to leave, and is a few steps from the door before he quickly walks back to the desk. "Were you supposed to tell me any of that?"

"Probably not."

"Right. Thanks for the help."

Once he's outside, Stiles calls Scott. It goes straight to voicemail.

"Hey, Scott. I came by the school to check in with you, and the office said you weren't in class. You're not in trouble. I just want to make sure you're okay. Call me when you get this. Bye."

In the back of his head, Stiles hears what Derek told Scott from the floor of his hotel bathroom. _"He'll call you out, and if you don't kill with him, he'll kill you."_

Stiles likes to think he's ignoring that voice rather well.

He starts checking his phone every two minutes or so.

ʘ

Derek opens the back door of the hotel, steps inside, and breathes deeply. Agent Martin is here. Good. He'd tried the hospital first, only to discover she'd been discharged already.

He sniffs again as he climbs the stairs. There's an acrid tone underlying Martin's usual scent. Some kind of medication, likely a painkiller.

Derek knocks quietly on Martin's door. When there's no answer, he knocks again, louder.

There's some mumbled cursing on the other side of the door before it swings open. It's an odd experience, seeing Martin out of her suit. She's wearing sleep pants and an over-sized t-shirt, and she hasn't bothered to put on makeup. Judging by the state of her hair, she's been sleeping.

"Yes?" she says irritably. She doesn't look _at _Derek so much as she looks _through_ him.

"I wanted to talk," Derek says carefully.

Martin leaves the door open, turns around, walks a few steps, and collapses onto the bed. Derek takes this as an invitation and steps inside.

"I need to know what you saw last night," Derek says.

"Can't tell you," Martin mumbles into the bedspread. "Case details. Very secret. Ssshh." From the sounds of it, she's falling asleep again.

Derek approaches the bed and gently shakes her shoulder. "Agent Martin. Last night, you said 'Alpha.' Did you see him?"

"Mmmh," Martin says. It sounds like an affirmative.

"Was he in the store before? As a human?"

Martin doesn't answer. Derek shakes her shoulder again. She groans in protest.

Derek can feel his fingers tightening on Martin's shoulder. He stops himself before he hurts her. "Please. I need something. Any detail you can give me."

No answer.

"Agent Martin!"

"_Hey!_"

Derek turns. Agent Stilinski is in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snaps.

Stepping away, Derek says, "I was just asking Agent Martin about last night."

"Agent Martin has a concussion and won't be answering anybody's questions right now," Stilinski shoots back. "Whatever you want to know, it can wait."

"No, it _can't_," Derek growls. "The Alpha's still out there. I need to find him before he kills anybody else."

"Would you knock it off with the Batman routine? This isn't your job. Leave it to the professionals."

"Yes, because you've been doing a _spectacular_ job so far."

Stilinski crosses his arms. "Out. Before I arrest you."

Derek stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him.

ʘ

It takes a few hours for Stiles to really start feeling like an asshole. He figures the Hale house is the best place to find Derek, but when he pulls up to the house, there's an unfamiliar SUV parked outside.

Three people exit the house as Stiles steps out of the jeep; two men and a woman. The men are carrying guns slung over their shoulders. Big ones.

"I hope those are registered," Stiles shouts across the yard at them.

"You must be Agent Stilinski," the woman says as she approaches. She's got a smile that Stiles finds a little too familiar. There's a special class of psychotics that wear that smile.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ma'am," Stiles replies. The two men are hanging back, probably to let their lady friend do all the talking.

"Kate Argent," the woman says.

Ah. The famous Aunt Kate.

"Any relation to Chris Argent?" Stiles says, because technically he's not supposed to know who she is.

"My big brother. Are you here to see Derek? I don't think he's home."

"So you're on a first name basis with Mr. Hale, then?" It would be a terrible idea for Stiles to draw his gun right now. He considers it anyway.

"Oh, we're old friends." Kate's smile gets wider.

The guy on the left is looking a little too twitchy for Stiles' comfort. "So you make a habit of bringing lethal weapons with you to visit _all_ your old friends?" Stiles asks, keeping his voice level.

"Can't be too careful, Agent Stilinski," Kate says. "Word is there's a wild animal on the loose out here."

Kate and her two buddies pile into the SUV and drive off.

Stiles checks his phone again as he heads up to the house. Still no word from Scott.

He feels like an idiot knocking on a door that's just barely still attached to the frame, but regardless of how shitty the house is, and regardless of the fact that it's technically county property, this is still Derek's space. Stiles has been enough of a dick to him today.

When Derek doesn't answer the door, Stiles starts to pace across the porch.

ʘ

There's an old hunting blind in the woods not far from the Hale house. Derek's been holed up inside for the last twenty minutes, waiting for Kate to leave his house.

"Derek? Are you here?"

Stilinski's voice is like a beacon. Derek's senses hone in on it immediately, and he _hates _that.

"Okay, so either you're not here or you're pretending like you can't hear me."

Derek hasn't heard the telltale creak of the front door. Stilinski isn't inside the house. Why not?

"I'm gonna assume the second thing, just in case. Look, I want to apologize. I shouldn't have freaked out on you like that. And what I said was wrong. Finding the Alpha is just as important for you as it is for us. Maybe more. God, I feel like a tool, talking to thin air like this."

Derek could leave the blind right now. Run to the house. Catch Stilinski before he leaves and have a proper conversation for once; one that isn't conducted in an interrogation room or a hotel bathroom.

Derek stays where he is.

"Okay, I'm leaving. I just... I want you to know that if you need my help again, you know where to find me. Don't worry about it being weird. I mean, you threw up on me, right? I don't think we need to worry about boundaries being crossed at this point."

The porch steps groan, and a few seconds later the jeep's engine starts.

It's nightfall before Derek decides it's safe to return to the house.

ʘ

Stiles comes back to the hotel that night to discover Lydia sitting on her bed, filling out a Weapons Discharge Report.

"Lydia, friends don't let friends take T3s and file paperwork."

She waves him off without looking up from the forms. "I'm feeling much more lucid, Stiles, thank you."

"You say that now, but that report's gonna wind up being 'Special Agent Martin's Weapons Discharge Report, as written by Franz Kafka.' Just you wait." Stiles sits on the edge of the bed. "I don't suppose you remember anything useful from last night?"

"I learned that we need better bullets," Lydia says idly. "Other than that... It was dark. I could barely see. Sorry, Stiles."

Stiles' phone rings, and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees the caller ID.

"_Where the hell have you been, Scott?_"

"I'm sorry," Scott says immediately. "I skipped today with Allison and turned my phone off."

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and considers borrowing some of Lydia's painkillers. "Scott, I am going to be completely gray by the time I'm twenty-five, and it will be _all your fault._"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry."

"So you're okay," Stiles bites out as his blood pressure lowers. Lydia's eyeing his hair with an inquisitive look on her face. This bodes ill.

"I'm fine," Scott says. "But..."

"'But?'"

"Mr. Argent shot a mountain lion at the school."

Stiles shoots to his feet. "I think you need to start that story a few sentences earlier."

"Parent-teacher conferences were tonight, and I got here just as they were ending, and then everybody was in the parking lot when this mountain lion started running around. Mr. Argent shot it. Everybody saw."

"Has someone called the police?"

"I think so. Nobody's hurt."

"Okay," Stiles says. "Go home, Scott. And keep your damn phone on."

"Sorry."

Stiles hangs up. Lydia looks up from her paperwork. "Trouble?"

"Chris Argent killed the mountain lion."

Lydia's eyes narrow. "But there is no mountain lion," she says, like she's not sure Stiles knows that.

"Yeah, but all the press releases said that our mystery animal 'might be' a mountain lion. The papers ran with that. So..."

"Somebody's trying to throw us off the Alpha's trail," Lydia finishes.


	6. This Werewolf Nonsense

**Notes:** I actually had to consult my American friends on the preferred spelling of "Truck-O-Saurus." Beta by Dusty, who just had a birthday and now has outstanding warrants in three countries for "inciting civil unrest."

**Chapter Six: This Werewolf Nonsense**

If Lydia's phone alarm goes off one more time, Stiles is going to jail for voluntary manslaughter.

"Don't be so dramatic, Stiles." Lydia rubs at her eyes and reaches for the enormous sport bottle full of caffeine-guarana-witchcraft-whatever-the-fuck on her desk.

"I've been trapped in a supernatural teen romance novel for the last three weeks. I get to be as dramatic as I want." Stiles watches in horrified fascination as Lydia chugs the energy sludge like she's a freshman at a rush party. "I know you want to fix your sleep schedule, but can't it wait?"

Lydia recaps the bottle. "No. Eight-hour sleep cycles are inefficient. I've already wasted enough work hours sleeping off that concussion."

"Which you're still recovering from," Stiles points out.

"I'm fine, Stiles." Lydia pulls the Hale case file from its drawer and opens it. "I'm going over to the long-term care home today. I want to find out more about Peter Hale."

"From what I understand, he's not much of a talker."

"Remember the book we had to read for that Lit class back in college? _The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?_"

"That's not even remotely the same thing."

There's a knock on the door, and Scott pokes his head into the office. "Stiles? Can I talk to you?"

Stiles checks the time on his phone. Almost 11:00. "Scott, why the fuck aren't you in school right now?"

"I need your help," Scott says, stepping inside.

"No, you _need _to be in school. You skipped all day Monday, and now you're skipping again today? What the fuck?"

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," Lydia says.

"_Someone_ woke up _three times_ last night because of your fucking alarm," Stiles snaps at her.

"Please!" Scott interrupts. "Derek says I have to stay away from Allison until I can control the change, but whatever he's trying to teach me isn't working. I need you to help me figure this out. Also, Derek broke my phone."

"He _what._"

Lydia pipes up: "I think I can help."

ʘ

"I knew your hippie yoga phase would come in handy," Stiles says.

They're in the station parking lot. Scott perches on the hood of the jeep, with Lydia standing in front of him.

Stiles is on standby with the fire extinguisher, just in case.

"My back hurts," Scott whines.

"That's because you never sit up straight," Lydia says. "Now, keep your tongue on the roof of your mouth."

"But then I won't be able to talk."

"Precisely. Now. When I say 'go,' you're going to exhale completely through your mouth, so there's no air in your lungs. Then, you're going to inhale through your nose for four seconds, hold it for seven, and exhale through your mouth for eight. And then again, four-seven-eight. You're going to do this four times. Got it?"

Scott nods.

"Good. Go."

Scott does what he's told. Afterwards, looking a little light-headed, he says, "Okay, now what?"

Lydia slaps him across the face.

"_What the fuck?_" Scott snarls. His voice is low, and Stiles can see a hint of fangs. He hefts the fire extinguisher.

Lydia holds a hand out to stop him, and looks sternly at Scott. "Go."

Hands clenched into fists, Scott does the breathing exercise again. When he's done, he opens his eyes and stares at Lydia like she's given him the secrets to the universe. "Wow."

"What you're doing is a natural tranquilizer. I don't know how helpful it'll be if you get _really _worked up, but..." Lydia shrugs. "Stiles, I think you can put the fire extinguisher down now."

"Right." Stiles ducks back into the station to return the extinguisher to its proper place. When he gets back outside, he says, "Scott, did you bike here?"

"Yeah," Scott says, still sitting on the hood of the jeep.

"Grab your bike. I'll drive you back to school."

ʘ

It's almost lunch when Stiles pulls up in front of Beacon Hills High. The morning's probably a wash.

"No more skipping, okay?" Stiles tells Scott as the kid tries to liberate his bike from the jeep's back seat.

"Okay," Scott says, sounding typically non-committal.

"And if you think you're gonna shift and can't stop it, call me and—"

"No phone," Scott reminds him.

"Right. Crap. Well, borrow somebody else's if you need to. Use the office phone. Whatever."

"Sure." Scott finally gets his bike free and adds, "And, uh... Thanks, Stiles. For helping."

"Lydia did all the work, all I did was hold the fire extinguisher."

"Not just the breathing stuff. Everything." Scott swallows thickly. "You've always looked out for me. Thank you."

Stiles nods, then ruins the moment by shoving Scott in the direction of the school. "Get to class, dicknose."

ʘ

Stiles and his dad have lunch at the steakhouse that serves all its drinks—even the wine—in mason jars. Honestly, it was a toss-up between that or the weird Christian sushi place that prints Bible verses on all its menus.

"And I'll have the sweet potato fries with that," Sheriff Stilinski says, handing his menu back to the waitress.

"No he won't," Stiles cuts in. "He'll have the rice."

"Stiles, I am a grown man and can make my own decisions."

"You are also a weak man and not to be trusted," Stiles corrects. "I have the cardiologist on speed-dial. I'll tell her on you."

The sheriff sighs. "The rice," he tells the waitress. She nods and scurries away, making a valiant effort to disguise her laughter.

"So you're sticking around, then?" Sheriff Stilinski says after the waitress is out of earshot.

"I have reason to believe the mountain lion killed by Chris Argent may not have been responsible for the earlier attacks," Stiles says automatically.

"That sounded practiced."

"I've been saying it all morning." Stiles reaches for his drink. "The curfew's getting lifted, though. Principal Chaney is catching hell from some of the parents. There's a dance... _thing _coming up, apparently."

Sheriff Stilinski laughs. "Time was, you lived for those dance _things_."

"Well, now I'm old and cranky."

"You're twenty-two, Stiles. I've got boots older than you."

"Clearly, I need to take you shoe shopping." Stiles pauses. "I have no idea how this conversation got here."

Sheriff Stilinski's expression gets much more serious, and he leans toward Stiles, elbows on the table. "Stiles, about this case—"

"You know I can't talk about—"

"—I know that, but if you or that partner of yours are ever in trouble, me and my boys are here to help. Okay?"

Stiles sighs. "For what it's worth, all this Men-in-Black bullshit? We're doing it so your guys can go home safe to their families. They haven't signed on for what Lydia and I have."

"Fair enough." Sheriff Stilinski leans back in his seat. "So, you seeing anyone?"

"Oh god, _Dad_..."

ʘ

The Beacon Hills long-term care center isn't exactly a high-traffic building; Lydia manages to get a parking space right by the door. As she gets out of the jeep, she spots a black Camaro parked on the far end of the lot.

There isn't anyone at the desk when Lydia enters the building, and nobody appears when she rings the bell.

Lydia's mulling over whether she should leave or take this opportunity to snoop when a relatively young woman—maybe early thirties—comes in the door.

"Oh! Sorry, I only stepped out for a minute," the woman says. She's wearing a jacket over her scrubs and her name tag reads, "Jennifer."

"It's fine." Lydia puts on her usual dealing-with-civilians smile. "Is there no one else here today?"

"Georgia called in sick this morning." Jennifer shrugs off her jacket and steps behind the desk. "Did you need something, Miss...?"

"Special Agent Martin, FDSI," Lydia says, flashing her badge. "I'm here to ask a few questions about Peter Hale."

"Anything specific?" Jennifer asks, tidying up her workspace. Lydia keeps getting distracted by how Jennifer talks: she carefully pronounces every word.

"Has Mr. Hale been able to communicate at all since the fire?"

Jennifer shakes her head. "We've had a few specialists in to see him, at the family's request. In the six years that Peter Hale has been here, there hasn't been any sign of recovery."

"So he's completely unresponsive?"

"That's correct."

Lydia _hmm_s. "When you say 'the family,' who exactly are you talking about?"

"Most of our correspondence was with Laura Hale, before she... died. She was his niece, I believe. The nephew, Derek, has been in to visit a few times over the last month or so."

"Interesting," Lydia says. "I don't suppose the name 'Kate Argent' rings any bells for you?"

Jennifer thinks for a moment. "No, I'm afraid not."

It was worth a shot. "You said Derek's been here?"

"Yes." Jennifer looks displeased. "He talks to his uncle, tries to get a reaction out of him. He's become... agitated, more than once."

There's a muffled shout from down the hall.

"Speaking of which," Jennifer says irritably. "Excuse me for a moment, Agent Martin."

After a second or two, Lydia follows Jennifer down the hall. Jennifer stops outside one of the patient rooms and throws the door open. "That's enough!" she barks.

Lydia peeks over Jennifer's shoulder. Derek Hale steps away from Peter's wheelchair, looking like he's been caught digging up the rosebushes. Lydia gets her first look at Peter Hale: early forties, narrow features, and a burn scar covering half his face. Despite all the noise, Peter hasn't moved or reacted in any way. He just sits in his chair, staring into the middle distance.

Jennifer advances on Derek, whose features harden into their regular scowly mask. "I told you, Derek," she snaps at him. "Your uncle needs _time _to recover. Yelling at him won't change that. Do I need to ban you from the building?"

"That won't be necessary," Lydia says, stepping forward. "Mr. Hale, I actually had some questions I was hoping you could answer."

Without waiting for a response, Lydia grabs Derek's wrist and drags him from the room. "Thank you for your cooperation," she calls to Jennifer, over her shoulder.

Derek manages to wrench his arm out of Lydia's mutant Truck-O-Saurus grip by the time they're outside. "What do you want?"

Lydia plants her hands on her hips. "You never did learn to interact like a normal person, did you? The appropriate thing to say right now would be, 'thank you, Agent Martin, for rescuing me from the scary nurse.'"

"Jennifer threatens to ban me every time I go into that building," Derek says. "She never actually does it."

"I think that might say more about you than it does about her."

Derek sniffs his dismissal and walks away. Or tries, at least. Lydia follows him and says, "I do need to talk to you, Mr. Hale."

"About what?"

"Scott McCall." Derek stops, and Lydia circles around in front of him. "What exactly are you teaching him?"

Derek shrugs. "Control."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"No." Derek sidesteps Lydia and starts walking again.

Lydia lets Derek leave and strides back to the jeep.

In the rear-view mirror, she sees Derek remove a sheet of paper from under his car's windshield wiper before getting in.

Lydia's reasonably certain that wasn't there before.

ʘ

Stiles kills the engine and dashes into the school, taking the steps up to the second floor two at a time. Last class of the day let out almost half an hour ago, and the halls are nearly empty. Good thing, too, otherwise Stiles would constitute a major traffic hazard.

He barrels through the door to the Chemistry room and stops. Scott's parked behind one of the lab benches, a bloody tissue to his nose but otherwise appearing totally unharmed. Mr. Harris, the Chem teacher, looks up from his desk and regards Stiles with detached, annoyed curiosity.

"Uh," Stiles says. "I think maybe there's been a miscommunication here."

Scott grins. "Stiles! Can you bail me out?"

Stiles' mouth opens and closes a few times. Finally, he turns to Mr. Harris. "Is he in detention?"

"Yes," says Mr. Harris.

"Right. Okay." Stiles turns back to Scott. "Scott, I'm pretty sure using my authority to get you out of a little detention time would be a gross violation of—"

"It's fine, take him," Mr. Harris says. "I have an appointment to get to."

Scott leaps off his stool and beelines it for the door, tossing his bloody tissue into the trash as he goes.

"What did you _do?_" Stiles asks incredulously as they walk down the halls together.

"I got in a fight."

"Oh, god."

"I knocked my bike into this senior's car and scratched it. He hit me while I was trying to apologize."

Stiles replays the last few sentences in his head. "Wait, you got into an _actual fistfight _and didn't wolf out?"

"I started to," Scott says. "I tried that breathing thing, but then I got punched in the gut. I really thought I was going to change, but... I heard Allison."

"You what?"

"I could hear Allison, all the way across the school. Just... talking. And I stopped."

"Hearing Allison's voice kept you from changing?"

"Yeah." Scott smiles dreamily.

Stiles carefully files this information away, in a mental folder labeled "IMPORTANT." It's right next to the folder where he keeps his pub conversations with Lydia, which is labeled "MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION."

"Come on," he says, elbowing Scott. "I'll drive you to work."

ʘ

When Scott and Stiles arrive at the animal clinic, Derek's car is parked outside. When they get inside the building, Derek's got Dr. Deaton by the neck, pinned to the examination table.

Stiles briefly considers switching to a department where shit like this doesn't happen. Maybe the SEC. White collar crime sounds super appealing right now.

"Derek, what the hell?" Scott yelps.

Derek slams Deaton's head against the table, knocking him unconscious. "What are you two doing here?"

"No, our question first," Stiles says, putting a hand on his holster.

"Point that thing at me again and I'll rip your heart out through your kneecaps," Derek snarls.

"I'd like to see you try," Stiles' mouth says, without the permission of Stiles' brain. Stupid mouth. "Please explain all of this, very fast, before I arrest you again."

"I found that—" Derek points to a sheet of paper on the surgical tray, "—on my windshield."

Stiles edges over and grabs the paper. It's a photocopy of an incident report from three months ago: a dead deer found with a spiral cut into its side.

"I came in to ask the doctor about it," Derek continues. "He said he'd never seen anything like it before. He was lying."

"And you know this how?" Stiles asks, checking Deaton's pulse. It's steady, for now, and from the looks of it his head isn't bleeding. Small blessings.

"Heart rate, sweating. I can tell."

"Werewolf polygraph, got it." Stiles reaches for his phone.

"What are you doing?" Derek says, eyes tracking the motion.

"Calling an ambulance."

"No," Derek growls, stepping into Stiles' personal space. "He knows something. Either Deaton's the Alpha, or he knows who is."

"You just cracked this man's head against a steel table so hard he passed out. He needs medical attention. We'll question him later."

Derek snatches Stiles' phone out of his hand. "If Deaton's the Alpha, he'll kill you. He'll kill anyone who could blow his cover."

"Give me back my phone, Derek," Stiles says evenly. "All this werewolf hazing crap might work on Scott, but it won't work on me."

"_Listen to me._ I'm trying to keep you alive."

"_Give me the phone_."

"I have an idea!" Scott shouts. Stiles and Derek both stare at him for a few seconds.

Finally, Stiles says, "What?" and snatches his phone back.

"I know how to tell if Dr. Deaton's the Alpha," Scott says. "Give me half an hour and bring him to the school. I'll meet you there."

ʘ

Stiles manages to drive quietly with Derek in the passenger seat for about three minutes before the silence is too much and he says, "You know, for a while there I actually believed you weren't a homicidal maniac."

"I'm not crazy," Derek says.

"If you have to say it—"

"I'm just... running out of options." Derek crosses his arms and sinks further into the seat. "I thought Scott could lead me to the Alpha, but he's not going to be ready in time. Too many people are dying."

Stiles checks over his shoulder. Deaton is still unconscious, handcuffed in the back seat. "Just for the record, while in retrospect I might understand your reasons, I'm still _really_ uncomfortable with this."

"You said that already. Those exact words."

"It bears repeating." Stiles taps nervously on the wheel. "I don't know about Dr. Deaton, but I _have_ seen that symbol before."

Derek turns his head slightly in Stiles' direction. "Where?"

"Jake Kerrigan had a spiral carved into his chest. Your sister was buried under a spiral, too. Is it some kind of werewolf code?"

Derek sighs. He sounds _exhausted_. "It means vengeance. A blood vendetta."

"So the Alpha wants revenge? Against who, bus drivers and video rental chains?"

Derek shrugs.

Stiles casts a quick glance at Derek before turning his eyes back to the road. "So you want vengeance, too? For Laura?"

Derek snorts. "You gonna tell me that revenge isn't the answer?"

"I don't care if it's the answer, I just care that it's frequently against the law." When Derek doesn't answer, Stiles adds, "Say you do find the Alpha. What are you gonna do? Kill him?"

"Would that be so bad?" Derek mutters.

"What do you mean, would—yes! It would be very bad! And illegal!"

"So what would you do, then? Put him on trial?"

"As a matter of fact, yes!" Stiles tries to calm down. Bad things happen when he gets worked up while driving. "Whoever the Alpha is, regardless of what he's done, he has a right to due process. Same as everybody else."

Silence falls over the jeep again.

After a few minutes, Stiles says, "I should call Lydia."

"I _told_ you," Derek says, exasperated. "If Deaton's the Alpha, and he wakes up, he'll kill both of us. Bring Agent Martin in, and it just gives him another target. She's safer if she's not here."

"Lydia knows the risks. It's part of her job."

"Then let me put it this way. If the Alpha kills us, there needs to be someone left who can continue your investigation, right?"

Stiles doesn't answer.

ʘ

Scott's waiting for them when they pull up to the school. He has a pair of bolt cutters.

"Do I want to know where you got those?" says Stiles, stepping out of the jeep.

"No," Scott replies.

"Okay then."

Derek exits the jeep and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. "What's this plan?"

"You said the Alpha calls me out," Scott says. "He does that by howling, right?"

"Yes," Derek says hesitantly.

"Well, every time he does that, I'm asleep, and I hear it anyway. Can that go both ways?"

"Pack mates can call to each other," Derek confirms. "A Beta's call is weaker, though."

"I can fix that," Scott says. "Keep an eye on Dr. Deaton."

Scott trots up to the school and uses the bolt cutters to break the chain on the doors.

"I have a horrible feeling like I know where this is going," Stiles says as Scott disappears inside.

Minutes later, a long, deep howl echoes through the school's PA system. It's so loud Stiles can't actually hear it, and it seems to go on forever.

Derek scrambles back to the jeep and peers in the window. No horrible furry monsters burst from the back seat. Stiles has mixed feelings about that.

Scott cracks the school door open. "Well?"

"_That_ was your plan?" Derek yells. "The whole town heard that!"

"On the plus side, we're pretty sure Deaton isn't the Alpha," Stiles adds.

Scott steps outside and rejoins them next to the jeep. "See? If Dr. Deaton were the Alpha, he would've responded to that, right? He wouldn't be able to help it."

"Yes," Derek says. He doesn't sound happy about it.

"Great," Stiles says, clapping his hands together. "Can we take the good doctor to the hospital, now? If we're lucky, maybe he won't press charges."

"He still knows something," Derek insists.

"And we'll find out what that is, once we're sure you haven't given him permanent brain damage." Stiles starts to circle around the front of the jeep.

He hears the sound of claws on asphalt too late. Stiles spins back around, drawing his sidearm as he goes.

The Alpha charges Derek. Its claws plunge into his back. Blood spurts from Derek's mouth, and the Alpha tosses him aside like a broken toy.

"Scott!" Stiles shouts. "_Run!_"

Stiles opens fire.


	7. Lost in the Mazes

**Notes:** Beta by Dusty, who once spent nine days and nine nights trapped in a cave full of funnel-webs, learning the Ways of the Spider.

**Chapter Seven: Lost in the Mazes**

The sound of gunfire shocks Derek out of his daze. Everything hurts. He can barely breathe. The pavement is rough and cold against his cheek.

The Alpha bellows. Claws scramble on the asphalt. Moving away. Fleeing? That can't be right.

Two fingers touch gently to his pulse.

"Derek?"

Derek groans.

The hand moves to his arm, lifting it. Lifting _him_.

"Come on, Derek. Move. The parking lot is not for sleeping."

Agent Stilinski carries—drags—Derek to the jeep. Hefts him into the passenger seat. The hand is back, fingers on his jaw, turning his face.

"Derek? Stay with me. I need you."

He can't focus. Leans into the warmth of Stilinski's touch. Why is he cold? Blood loss, maybe? Laura would know.

Something opens in front of him—the glove compartment—and Stilinski rummages around for a few seconds before snapping it shut again.

"Okay. You're safe here, for now. Help is on the way."

The door closes.

ʘ

Stiles slams the backup magazine home and chambers the first round. The fucking Alpha took 13 bullets to the face and all that did was scare him off. He considers hitting up the Argents for some of their wolfsbane rounds, but he doubts they'd let him have any. Plus, those things probably violate more than a few articles of the Geneva convention.

He grabs his phone and calls Lydia.

"Stiles? Where have you been?"

"It's a really, _really_ long story." Stiles scans the parking lot. "I'm at the school now. Derek's hurt and Dr. Deaton's cuffed in the back of the jeep. I need you to get here, pick them up, and get them somewhere safe."

"... Stiles, _why_ is Dr. Deaton cuffed in the back of the jeep?" Lydia says. "Never mind, we'll go over that later. Swear to god, I can't leave you alone for _five fucking minutes_. Where are you going to be?"

Stiles ascends the steps to the school doors. "Scott ran into the school. The Alpha's probably gone after him. I've got to find him first."

"You'll need my help."

"Derek and Dr. Deaton first." Stiles cracks the door open and edges inside. "Trust me, okay?"

"I always do, against my better judgment." Through the line, Stiles hears the office door close. "Be careful, Stiles."

"Will do." Stiles hangs up.

Schools are always creepy when they're empty. Doubly so after dark, with the lights off. Stiles keeps his gun drawn and moves slowly through the halls, checking every corner.

He stops when he hears something moving.

Around the next corner, just out of his line of sight: deep, heavy breathing.

Stiles raises the gun and quickly turns the corner, finger on the trigger.

He immediately lowers it again when he sees who it is, because Special Agent Stilinski of the FDSI almost shot the mouth-breathing janitor.

"What the _fuck?_" the janitor gasps. Either this is the exact same guy from when Stiles was in high school, or there's a hiring policy in place here that favors short, middle-aged balding custodians.

Stiles flicks the safety catch and holsters the gun before his nerves get someone killed. "Sorry, my mistake."

"What the hell are you doing, waving a gun around like that?"

Stiles shows the guy his badge. "I'm Agent Stilinski."

"One of the feds?"

"Yeah." Stiles looks up and down the hall. All clear, for now. "Don't suppose you've seen a teenage boy running around the school?"

"Nah, not tonight." The janitor starts to look less like he's on the verge of a heart attack. "There's a kid in here? You need help looking?"

Stiles exhales, trying to get his own heart rate under control. "Actually, yeah. That would be awesome. But there's a suspect on the premises, too. If you see anyone you don't recognize, _don't __confront them_, okay? Don't even approach them. The suspect is armed and dangerous." Which isn't even a total lie.

"Sure thing," the janitor says, still looking a little shaken.

"All right, I'll take the North wing. Meet you back at the atrium after the first sweep."

Stiles and the janitor strike out in opposite directions. Stiles has just turned the corner when he hears the janitor yell.

Shit. Stiles draws his gun again and backs up, peeking around the corner.

The janitor is on the floor. In a pool of blood. There are a pair of red eyes in the dark.

Stiles doesn't bother with the bullets this time. He runs.

ʘ

Eventually, Stiles slows to a jog, then a brisk walk. He turns yet another corner and collides with Scott.

"Back door," Stiles barks, and pushes Scott ahead of him.

They reach the back door, undo the locks, and shove against the door handles.

The doors don't budge.

"Crap," Stiles squeaks—very manfully, mind you—and looks through the windows. Someone's shoved a Dumpster up against the doors. "Oh, that is just _cheating_."

"What do we do?" Scott whines.

Stiles leans back against the doors and tries to remember the layout of the school. "Okay, we'll circle back around to the gym, get out through there."

"Wait." Scott holds a hand up and tips his head to the side, like the dog from the old RCA Victor ads. "Is that...?"

"What?"

"... I think Allison and Jackson are in here somewhere."

Stiles makes a few incoherent noises of confusion before he says, "_Why?_"

"I need to borrow your phone," Scott says.

Stiles hands his phone over. Scott dials quickly and puts it on speaker.

"... Hello?" A girl's voice.

"Allison?" Scott says. "Where are you?"

"I'm by the pool. Where are _you?_"

"Allison?" Stiles says, cutting in. "It's Agent Stilinski. Meet us in the atrium, okay?"

"... Okay," Allison says, and hangs up.

ʘ

Scott and Stiles are waiting in the atrium when Allison and Jackson arrive. Stiles opens with, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"You told us to meet you in the atrium," Jackson says, wearing the patented adults-are-idiots face all teenagers pick up in middle school.

"Not _here_-here, _at-the-school_-here," Stiles snaps.

"Scott texted me," Allison says. "He said to come to the school."

A few seconds pass. "Scott doesn't have a phone," Stiles says, very carefully.

"And why is Jackson here?" Scott adds.

"We were hanging out when she got your text," Jackson says.

"'Hanging out?'" Scott says, looking _pissed_. "With _Jackson?_"

Allison says, "We're just friends."

"McCall, relax," Jackson says, right on Allison's heels. "You don't have dibs over Allison's _entire_ social life."

Stiles groans. "Oh my god, are we really going to do this_ now?_"

A low growl echoes down the hall from behind Stiles.

"Run!" Stiles yells, drawing his gun. Scott grabs Allison by the arm, and the kids book it down the hall. Stiles follows, covering their retreat.

They end up in the cafeteria, of all places. Stiles slams the deadbolt into place and steps back with his gun raised, covering the door.

"What the hell was that?" Jackson gasps, trying to get his breath back. Jesus, for the captain of the lacrosse team, the guy isn't much of a sprinter.

"Uh, there is currently a murder suspect loose in the school," Stiles says, not taking his eyes off the door.

"A _suspect?_" Jackson wheezes.

"That... that's the best way of putting it, yeah. He's already killed the janitor."

"... Then he's not a _suspect_, is he?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Look, this isn't my best day, all right?"

"So what do we do?" Allison says. She sounds nervous, but not nearly as wrecked as Jackson.

"Right now, priority one is getting you guys out of here," Stiles says. "Back doors are blocked, and the suspect is between us and the other exits, so we need another way out."

"Can't we call someone?" Jackson asks petulantly. "Get the authorities involved?"

"The 'authorities' _are_ involved," Stiles answers. "Sorry, man. I'm all you get."

"Oh, well that's just _great_."

"Hey!" Scott snarls.

"Calm down, Scott," Stiles says. His arms are starting to get sore. "Did they ever close off the old stairwell in the kitchen?"

"I don't think so," Scott says.

"Okay, we can get to the second floor through there. We're going out via the roof."

Jackson gapes. "The _roof?_"

"No, there's a fire escape down to the ground, it makes sense," says Allison.

The doors shudder, like something heavy has just thrown itself against them.

"Up the stairs!" Stiles shouts, backing up. "Now! Head for the chem lab!"

Stiles manages to get the stairwell door closed and locked behind him before the cafeteria door breaks, but it's a near thing.

ʘ

Just outside the chem lab, Stiles' phone rings.

"I just dropped Mr. Hale off at the hotel," Lydia says as soon as Stiles picks up. "He's healing already. I think he'll be okay."

"Where'd you put him?"

"The bathtub."

"And Dr. Deaton?"

"He wasn't in the jeep."

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_," Stiles hisses.

"I'm on my way back," Lydia says.

"What? No!" In the background, Stiles can hear an engine running. "Distracted driving law!" he adds.

"Stiles, I'm not about to let the Alpha eat my partner," Lydia says. She's using that _tone _again. "I just got you trained the way I want. I'll be there soon."

With that, Lydia hangs up.

Stiles shoulders open the door to the chem lab. Scott, Jackson, and Allison look like they're waiting for him. "Why aren't you guys out of here yet?"

"The door to the roof is locked," Allison says.

"_Fuck_." Stiles locks the door and leans against it. "Okay, give me a second to think."

"Can't you just shoot the lock off or something?" Jackson says.

"Oh yeah, that's an _awesome_ idea, it's not like the bullet could _ricochet_ and _kill someone_ or anything," Stiles retorts.

"What about the janitor?" Allison asks. "He has the keys to every lock in the building, right?"

"The janitor's dead," Stiles reminds her gently.

"I know, but you could maybe get the keys off his body? Or something?"

It's not a bad idea. Well, it is a bad idea, but it's less bad than all the other options. "Okay," Stiles says, and turns back around, unlocking the door to the hall. "Stay here, and lock this door behind me." He digs his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to Allison. "My partner's on her way, so if I don't come back—"

"Wait!" Scott interrupts. He grabs Stiles' arm and pulls him to the other end of the room. Christ, his grip is strong these days. "I should go," Scott says.

"I can't let you risk yourself," Stiles replies, keeping his voice low. "The Alpha's after _you—_"

"Because he needs me," Scott points out. "He needs me in his pack, right? He wants to kill me less than he wants to kill you."

"That's because he wants you to _commit murder_ with him."

"He can't make me hurt anyone." Scott glances back at Allison, who's nervously watching them. "I need you to protect her."

"Them," Stiles corrects.

"Yeah, _them_." Scott looks over at Allison again. "Please. Let me do it."

Stiles sighs. "Let the record show that this is a stupid plan and I hate it."

"I know," Scott says, and is out the door before Stiles can say anything else.

"Scott?" Allison calls. Stiles throws the deadbolt. "Where's he going?"

"He's getting the keys."

"_By himself?_" Allison sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

"He'll be fine," Stiles says, trying to sound convincing.

"You were just saying whoever went might not come back!"

Jackson shrugs. "Look, if McCall wants to throw himself under the bus for us, I have no problem with—"

"Shut up, Jackson!" Allison shouts. Oh, she's definitely crying now.

"He'll be okay," Stiles repeats, staring at the door. He fully intends to watch this door until Scott comes back through it.

About five minutes go by in silence before Jackson says, "I'm sorry."

Stiles assumes this apology isn't for him, what with the crying person in the room, and so says nothing.

"I mean it," Jackson says. "I told you I was going to be less of a dick, and I haven't been doing a very good job, so... sorry."

"It's okay," Allison says, sniffling a bit.

A howl rends the air, deep and long. Stiles' fingers twitch toward his holster.

"What was that?" Allison gasps.

At the same time, Jackson says, "That doesn't sound like a fucking 'murder suspect.'"

"Everything's fine," Stiles says, lying through his teeth. "I'm sure it's nothing."

Another few minutes go by. Then, they hear Scott's voice from the hall.

"Stiles?"

Stiles steps up to the door, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, buddy? Got the keys?"

"Yes." There's a pause, then: "Stiles, I need you to come out here." His voice sounds... small, almost childlike.

"Scott? Everything okay out there? Are you hurt?"

"Stiles, please. I need you to come out."

The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck are standing on end. Something feels wrong, and Stiles hasn't survived this long in his line of work by ignoring his instincts.

But it's _Scott_.

Stiles steps away from the door. "Keep this door closed and locked," he says to Allison and Jackson, "and don't open it until I say so. No matter what happens, _do not open this door_." He hands his phone to Allison.

Allison takes the phone, looks at it, then looks up at him. "What's going on?"

Stiles says, "Everything's gonna be okay."

He really hates lying to Allison.

Stiles steps out of the chem lab. He hears someone throw the deadbolt behind him.

There's nobody out here. Stiles looks up and down the hall. Empty. "Scott?"

And then Scott's _there_, fully shifted, yellow eyes glowing from under his eyebrows.

Scott's hand snakes out, grabbing Stiles by the throat and slamming his head against the door. Stiles hears a stifled scream from inside. He reaches for his gun. Scott bashes him against the door again, and with his other hand grabs Stiles' wrist and _twists_.

Stiles gasps for air as Scott's grip tightens. He tries to pry Scott's hand off his throat. Stiles' head hammers against the door a third time. He hears glass crack. Something wet drips down the back of his neck.

Allison screams. "_Scott!_"

Scott lets go. Stiles drops to the floor, gasping, then grabs his gun and trains it on Scott, finger on the trigger.

Shifted back to normal, Scott stares at Stiles, his breathing ragged.

"Stiles?" he says, scared and lost, and starts to cry.

ʘ

There's about a three foot drop between the bottom of the fire escape and the ground. Allison breaks the heel off one of her boots on the way down, but she's safe.

They're all safe.

Scott helps Stiles down the ladder and hands him off to Lydia, who leans him against her borrowed squad car. No, correction: Sheriff Stilinski's squad car.

Stiles feels like he's earned a bit of petty grousing. "You brought my _dad?_"

"He invited himself," Lydia says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding from the head, my throat hurts, and I pointed a gun at a sixteen-year-old kid," Stiles says, trying to remain vertical.

"So that's a no?"

"I kind of want to die."

Lydia steps closer and lowers her voice so only Stiles can hear her. "Any sign of the Alpha?"

Stiles shakes his head and immediately regrets it. "Ow, ow, ow, _fuck_."

Lydia tips his head forward and examines the dried blood on the back of his skull. "You're going to the hospital."

"Yes, ma'am." Stiles sees Scott evade Sheriff Stilinski's attempts to keep the teenagers corralled and head their way.

"Agent Martin?" Scott says, avoiding eye contact. "Can I talk to Stiles for a second?"

Lydia nods and walks a few yards away, ostensibly out of earshot. Absolutely nothing about her posture indicates that she's eavesdropping, which means she probably is.

"I'm _so sorry_," Scott says, for about the fourteenth time.

"It's okay. It wasn't you. The Alpha did something to you."

"But it _was_," Scott says. "Or... Whatever the Alpha did. When I attacked you... I _wanted_ to kill you."

Stiles rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Well, you didn't do a very good job." When he pulls his hands away and sees the look on Scott's face, he adds, "Sorry. That was mean. Sorry."

"The Alpha wants me to kill you. And Allison. He doesn't just want you guys dead. He wants _me_ to do it."

Stiles tries to blink away the oncoming headache. It doesn't work. "Why?"

"I think... the Alpha needs me in his pack. But first... I need to get rid of the pack I already have. The _Alpha_ I already have. And... that's you."

"I'm not your Alpha, Scott."

"Yes you are," Lydia calls over to them.

"Okay, maybe I'm your Alpha a little bit," Stiles concedes. He reaches over and pats Scott on the shoulder. "Go home, Scott. It's been a long night. We'll work this out."

Scott wanders back over to Allison. Stiles wobbles a bit. Lydia strides over and grabs him before he topples over. "Hospital," she says, and shoves him into the passenger seat.

When Lydia settles into the driver's seat, Stiles says, "Isn't Dad coming?"

"He's driving the jeep back to the station," Lydia explains, and starts the engine.

They're on the road when Stiles says, "I pointed a _gun_ at _Scott_."

"You mentioned. Just focus on not passing out, Stiles. We'll talk about this later."

Stiles leans his head against the passenger-side window and watches the streetlights go by.


	8. Something Very Tragic

**Notes:** Beta by Dusty, who once referred to a full moon-induced freakout as "going wolfshit." This is now my go-to phrase when describing Werewolf PMS.

**Chapter Eight: Something Very Tragic**

Stiles finds out that Scott has acquired a new phone when he receives a text from an unfamiliar number that reads, "_me and allison broke up... :(_."

"Well, shit," says Stiles.

ʘ

That Friday night, Melissa McCall decides her son has spent enough time moping around the house and makes a phone call. Less than an hour later, Stiles shows up at their front door in jeans and a t-shirt and promptly bundles Scott into the jeep.

"I was thinking we could catch a movie," Stiles says, steadfastly ignoring the Angst Rays that Scott emits from the passenger seat.

Scott says, "I want a drink."

Stiles says, "And I want your mom not to stab me."

ʘ

They wind up at a cyber cafe called Naked, run by a man who seems to believe that letting customers play _Rock Band_ on-stage is an acceptable substitute for a house band.

"I know you feel like shit _now_," Stiles says, as a horribly mangled version of 'Green Grass and High Tides' comes screaming through the sound system. "But, Scott, at your age girls are like buses. There's gonna be another one in, like, ten minutes."

"I don't want another one," Scott mumbles. "I want Allison."

Stiles sighs. "Look, I've been where you are, okay? I was your age when my first girlfriend dumped me. I thought I'd _never_ be with anyone ever again."

"And then you met Shaun," Scott says. He's heard this story before.

"Yeah, who as it turned out didn't like boys after all." Stiles winces at the memory. "Then there was Tara. Same problem."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"It's not working, is it?"

"No."

"Right. Well." Stiles leans over and claps Scott on the shoulder. "My point is, it's not the end of the world."

Scott nods. There's a firm set to his jaw. "I'm gonna get her back."

"Oh god, please don't start stalking the poor girl. I'm busy enough."

ʘ

As soon as Derek hears the lock beep, Agent Martin is on her feet and grabbing for her purse. "Oh, thank god," she says, and is out of the hotel room and halfway down the stairs before Agent Stilinski even has a chance to put his keys down.

"Come on!" Stilinski yells after her. "Werewolf-sitting isn't that bad!"

Martin doesn't answer.

"She said she likes me better when I'm unconscious," Derek says, flipping through the enormous door-stopper of a book Stilinski keeps in the room. He doesn't know _why_ Stilinski travels with a copy of _The Last Words of Notable People_, and he's not sure he wants to.

Even after two days of recovery, he's still more or less bedridden. At least his lung has re-inflated.

"Don't take it personally." Stilinski shrugs off his jacket. The civilian clothes make him look younger. Or maybe closer to his actual age. The suit adds ten years, but Stilinski has one of those faces that will get him carded at bars until he's forty. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Derek grunts.

Stilinski grabs the remote from the TV stand and walks over to the bed. "Budge over."

Derek's head snaps up. He can't have heard that right. "What?"

"It's only awkward if you make it awkward."

Begrudgingly, Derek shuffles over. Stilinski sits on the bed next to him, leaning back against the headboard, and starts clicking through what looks like the TV's on-demand menu.

Stilinski's knee presses up against Derek's shoulder. Derek carefully readjusts until this is no longer the case, then glances up from the book and registers just what section of the on-demand menu Stilinski is browsing. "Cartoons? Really?"

"They help mitigate the existential horror of my existence," Stilinski says.

Derek shakes his head and turns his attention back to the controversy over John Adams' dying words. "You're _weird_, Stilinski."

"Says the _werewolf_." After a second, Stilinski adds, "You can call me Stiles, you know. Everybody does."

Derek tries not to let his surprise show on his face, but can't help the way his shoulders tense. "... Not everybody."

"Okay, fine, the people who want to save a couple of syllables call me that."

"You don't have a first name, Stiles?" The nickname should sound ridiculous coming out of Derek's mouth, but he has to admit it suits the man.

"Technically, yes," Stilinski—Stiles—says. "And maybe one day, if you're a very good werewolf, you'll find out what it is."

Stiles appears to have finally settled on something to watch—_My Little Pony_, of all things—and settles in as the episode starts. The show is weirdly compelling, and keeps distracting Derek from his reading. Derek closes the book in resignation and says, "Agent Martin said you haven't found Deaton."

"Apparently, the good doctor has taken an extended leave of absence," Stiles says. "Probably to get away from you. No offense. We've got a BOLO out on him as a person of interest. Best we can do, for now."

"And Scott?"

Stiles looks over at Derek, eyebrow raised. "What about him?"

"You should keep an eye on him. Monday night is the full moon."

"I've been thinking about that." Stiles is silent for a moment, then his eyes widen. "Jesus _wept_, do you know what this means?"

"What?"

"I've been in this crap town full of werewolf drama for like a _month!_" Stiles groans, sinking further down the bed. "The bean-counters at HQ are gonna have a _fit_ when they get the hotel bill."

Derek honestly doesn't have an answer to that.

Luckily, he doesn't have to come up with one. Stiles elbows him. "What about you? I know you're the Werewolf Zen Master and everything, but in your condition... Are you gonna be okay?"

Derek wants to brush it off, tell Stiles he'll be fine, but instead he finds himself saying, "I don't know."

Stiles sits up, looking Derek's way and chewing his lip. "If you need help, you can come to me. Us, I mean. Lydia would help too. Although I can't guarantee she won't poke you with sticks."

Something's been bothering Derek for a while now, and he can't keep quiet about it anymore. "Why?"

"Because Lydia is an actual cartoon mad scientist."

"No, why do you keep doing this? Going so far out of your way to help me?"

Stiles' mouth opens and closes a few times. "... I don't understand the question."

Derek growls. "What are you getting out of this? For a while I thought you wanted information, but now I'm not so sure. What do you want from me?"

Stiles doesn't say anything, just stares at him until Derek snaps, "Well?"

"Sorry, I'm just waiting for you to storm out of the room like you usually do."

"I can't leave the bed," Derek grits out through his teeth.

Stiles says, "There's no angle, okay? This is what people _do_. They help each other."

"One day, I'd like to meet these 'people' you keep talking about," Derek says under his breath.

"One day, _I'd_ like to have a talk about your trust issues." Stiles settles back down. "Watch the ponies, Derek. They are good for your soul."

ʘ

Stiles steadfastly reminds himself that the students of Beacon Hills High are not bad people for gleefully embracing their murder-induced four-day weekend. This mindset is difficult to maintain when, on Monday, he passes a group of sophomores chatting loudly about how bad they need another murder on campus so they can get the rest of the week off.

Scott meets Stiles by the bleachers at lunch, looking haggard. "How was the Chem test?" Stiles asks.

"I have to make it up," Scott says.

"Tell me you didn't skip again."

"I didn't!" Scott protests. "I was there for the test, I just... I had to get out. I couldn't breathe."

"Let me guess. Heart pounding? Felt like you were gonna throw up?" When Scott nods, Stiles says, "Yeah, that was a panic attack. I got them for a while after my mom died. How are you feeling now?"

"Better," Scott says. "Not normal, though." He groans, high and strained. "I _hate_ this. I can't calm down, and I can't stop thinking about Allison, and when I'm not thinking about _her_ I'm thinking about the full moon and maybe _hurting_ someone..."

Stiles puts his hands on Scott's shoulders. "Just stick to the plan, okay? Take it one class at a time, and once you're home we'll put you under lockdown. It'll be okay."

The bell rings. Scott takes a deep breath and starts his hike back to the school.

"One class at a time," Stiles reminds him.

ʘ

That evening, Stiles arrives at the McCalls' just as Melissa is leaving for her shift. "Scott didn't tell me you were coming over," she says as they pass each other on the porch.

"Really? He was supposed to," Stiles says.

"It probably slipped his mind, after what happened at lacrosse practice."

Oh, fuck. "Did someone get hurt?"

"You know Danny, the goalie? Scott nearly took his head off." Melissa sighs, sounding defeated. "I worry about him. We don't talk anymore. I can never tell what's going on inside his head."

"He's a teenager. This is pretty normal." Well, not _completely_ normal, but still.

"I know. I was just hoping it would be different with Scott." Melissa adjusts her shoulder bag and adds, "Thanks for dragging him out Friday night."

"It wasn't a problem," Stiles says automatically.

"I really appreciate it, though. You're the closest thing he's got to a brother. He needs someone like that, right now." Melissa checks the time on her phone. "Oh god, I've really got to get to work. Night, Stiles."

Stiles says, "Goodnight," and steps inside the house.

Scott's bedroom door is ajar. Stiles knocks anyway. When Scott doesn't answer, Stiles toes the door open. "Scott?"

Stiles flicks the light on and jumps when he sees Scott sitting on the floor in the corner. "Jesus _Christ!_" Stiles tamps down his fight-or-flight response. "I see Derek's been teaching you how to lurk."

"Hey, Stiles." Scott's voice is flat and disinterested, a sharp contrast to the twitchy wreck he'd been at the school.

Stiles checks the time, and consults the app he installed on his phone for this express purpose. "Moon's rising in a few minutes. We should get you down to the basement."

"I don't need it," Scott says, not moving from the floor.

"Really? 'Cause earlier today you were pretty freaked out."

Scott stands slowly, fists clenched. "I _said_ I don't need you to lock me up. I'm fine."

Stiles takes a few steps forward, hands out at his sides. "I just want to be sure. Why don't we head down to the basement, I won't even lock the door—"

Scott lunges at him.

Stiles' reflexes take over. He grabs one of Scott's outstretched arms—oh fuck, _claws—_and spins him around, twisting the arm up and behind his back. Stiles throws his weight forward and bears them down to the floor.

Scott wheezes as the wind is knocked out of him. Stiles cuffs Scott's hands behind his back while the kid is still stunned.

Stiles puts a knee into the small of Scott's back. "Scott, just calm down and I'll take the cuffs off."

Scott snarls. Stiles resigns himself to the fact that he might be here a while.

ʘ

When asked what he needed for the full moon, Derek requested a small, windowless room. His face when Lydia suggested shutting him in the hotel bathroom again is a memory she will treasure for years to come.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything?" Lydia says from the table by the window. "Water? A cute little bunny rabbit?"

"I'm fine," Derek replies, voice slightly muffled by the door.

"Just yell if you change your mind." Lydia goes back to her case notes. The file on the Hale house fire is open on the table, contents scattered across the surface. Lydia has memorized the file's contents by now, but having it in front of her helps her think. As does talking.

Lydia says, "So, about Kate Argent."

There's a long stretch of silence, then: "Yes?"

"The scale of the fire makes me think she had accomplices. There's just too many angles for one woman to cover." Lydia flips back through her notes. "A few on the outside, maybe a three- or four-man team, and at least one on the inside."

Derek's voice is a low growl when he says, "'Inside?'"

"For the fire to be as effective as it was, she would have had to know the layout of the house. Someone gave her that information." Lydia chews on a pen, then jots down a few more notes. "Did your family employ any cleaning staff? Gardeners? Contractors, maybe?"

"No."

"Hmm. A member of the household, then. An asset she developed within the family itself. Clever."

"Agent Martin?"

Lydia looks up from her work. "Yes, Mr. Hale?"

"Please stop talking."

"I'm just making conversation."

"_Don't_."

ʘ

Stiles is really, _really_ glad he had some spare zip-strips in his jacket pocket.

Scott lies on the floor, arms and legs restrained, occasionally growling and snapping at Stiles if he gets too close. Stiles sits on the floor, leaning against the door frame, and waits, occasionally checking his phone.

Small blessings: at least Scott hasn't started foaming at the mouth. Yet.

"Stiles?"

Stiles looks over at Scott, whose head is turned away. "Yeah?"

"Can you let me up now?"

It's that same tone of voice Stiles heard at the school, right before he got his head smashed into a door. Stiles _hates_ that voice. "You sure you're okay, Scott?"

"I am, I'm feeling better."

Stiles drums his fingers against his knee, thinking. "... Let me check your eyes first."

Scott _howls_. "_Let me go!_"

Yeah, no good. Stiles shuffles back a bit. "Let's give it a few more minutes."

_Snap_.

Stiles' heart jumps.

The zip-strip that was binding Scott's legs is in pieces on the floor. With a scream of tortured metal, the cuffs give way, too.

Scott leaps out the window. A howl echoes across the yard.

Stiles stares at the gouge marks on the windowsill. "... _Fuck_."

ʘ

Lydia answers the phone without looking, engrossed in her work. "Agent Martin."

"Lydia?" It's Stiles. "Scott got loose."

Lydia freezes, pen hovering above the paper. "... _Fuck_."

"My thoughts exactly."

"What's the plan?"

"I'm in the jeep now. I'll do a sweep of the town, see if I can find him."

"And if you can't?"

Derek says, "I'll find him."

Lydia stands and walks over to the bathroom, leaning against the wall next to the door. "Say again, Mr. Hale?"

"I can find Scott," Derek says. "Keep him from hurting anyone."

"What?" Stiles says.

"Hale says we should send him to find Scott."

"Is he recovered enough for that?" Stiles says. "More importantly, is this gonna result in _two_ moon-crazy werewolves running around town?"

"I can do it," Derek says, sounding near enough that he must be pressed up against the door. "Trust me."

"Hale seems pretty confident, Stiles. And we don't have many other options."

A sigh blows down the phone line. "... Okay."

ʘ

Derek scents the air as he runs, following the smell of stress and hormones and wolf. The moon tugs at his instincts, but he ignores it. He's needed.

(_Stiles_ needs him.)

The trail leads him downtown, to the shopping mall. Parking lot. The smell of gasoline thickens in the air.

There: a series of dull, metallic _thud_s. Something running atop a line of cars. There's a Porsche at the end of the row. Two occupants: teenagers, a boy and a girl.

Scott leaps onto the Porsche's roof. Derek charges.

The impact bowls them both off the roof of the car and sends them rolling down the hill at the edge of the parking lot.

Scott manages to get a hit in, driving an elbow up under Derek's ribs. Derek gasps and lands flat on his back. He's not healed yet. He still _aches_.

Derek stumbles away, trying to catch his breath, and lunges again when he sees Scott trying to claw his way back up the hill.

He throws Scott against a tree. It shudders with the impact.

Scott staggers and falls to his knees. Derek stays standing and refuses to double over in pain like he wants to. When Scott finally looks up, his features have shifted back to human.

Scott gasps, "What's happening to me?"

ʘ

Stiles is circling the outskirts of Beacon Hills when he sees the ambulance lights down the road, near the entrance to the preserve. He pulls up next to a squad car—the _sheriff's_ squad car—and steps out of the jeep.

There are two gurneys: one being loaded into the ambulance, the other waiting on the asphalt. The occupants are both in body bags.

Sheriff Stilinski spots him. "That was quick," the sheriff says, joining Stiles by the ambulance. "I just got off the phone with Agent Martin."

"I was just driving by," Stiles replies. "What's going on?"

"Couple of kids found these two in the woods. Two male victims, severely burned."

"Okay, weird," Stiles concedes. Scott wouldn't set anybody on fire, right? Mauling yes, combustion no. "Why call us, though?"

"Because of this," the sheriff says, and unzips the nearest body bag.

Stiles shouldn't be relieved to see a spiral carved into the victim's chest. He is anyway.


	9. A Little Bit Confused

**Notes:** Beta by God-Empress Dusty, Tamer of Ferrets.

**Chapter Nine: A Little Bit Confused**

"Paul Unger and Dean Reddick," Lydia says, taping two pictures to the whiteboard she'd had wheeled into the office. There weren't any windows available to write on. "Murdered Sunday night, found severely burned Monday night, both with postmortem lacerations in the shape of a spiral. I think it's safe to assume the Alpha's responsible."

"The burning is new," Stiles says, regarding the board with crossed arms.

"Maybe the Alpha's developed a sense of dramatic irony. Both Unger and Reddick have priors for arson." Lydia tapes up another picture. "As did Jake Kerrigan, the video store clerk. I think I have my three-man team. Four, if you count Kate Argent."

"So you think these guys helped set the Hale house fire?" Stiles says.

"Clearly, the Alpha does."

"Okay, and Garrison Myers? He doesn't have a criminal record."

"Not technically, no." Lydia tapes up Myers' picture, at a distance from the other three. "However, before Myers was a bus driver, he worked as an insurance investigator. I checked the records: he was assigned to the Hale case. He also resigned four years ago, after he was accused of taking bribes."

"So Unger, Reddick, and Kerrigan set the fire, then Myers fudges the records so it's ruled an accident." Stiles looks over at Lydia's desk. There's a photo that hasn't been taped up yet. "What about Laura Hale? If the Alpha's seeking justice for the fire, why start by murdering one of the survivors?"

Lydia picks up the photo. "Remember when I told you Kate Argent might have had an asset within the Hale family?"

"You think it was Laura?"

"It's a possibility. If Laura Hale fed information to Argent, that would make her just as valid a target as, say, Myers."

"Okay, so... _why?_" Stiles says. "Why is the Alpha so invested in avenging the Hales?"

"Distant relative?" Lydia suggests. "Wandering werewolf vigilante, maybe? Hale might know."

"Good luck getting hold of him. I haven't heard from Derek since the full moon."

There's a knock on the office door. "Agent Stilinski? Agent Martin?"

Stiles walks over and opens the door. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"We just got an anonymous tip," the officer says. "Your suspect from the school? According to the tip-off, he's going to be there again tonight."

ʘ

"This is Agent Martin. Be advised that our suspect is extremely dangerous. Pursue, but do not engage. If at any point you draw the suspect's attention, retreat _immediately_. Out."

Lydia drops the radio handset back into its cradle.

"I still don't like this," Stiles says, eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight.

"We don't have enough agents to pull a Crocodile Hunter," Lydia replies. "This is the next best thing."

"I _really_ don't trust tranquilizers."

"Neither do I. No other options."

They peel into the school parking lot. The squad cars have already arrived, sirens blaring. One of the officers is yelling over the loudspeaker already: something about the building being surrounded and the usual "nowhere to hide" crap.

Stiles lets out a high, exasperated noise. "Are these people fucking serious right now?"

Lydia says, "They've been a bit pent up lately."

Something big, dark, and _fast_ darts across the roof.

Stiles grabs for the radio and hits the gas. "Suspect is leaving the school, headed northwest! Don't lose him!"

ʘ

The chase leads them all the way into Beacon Hills' main industrial park. It's dark, the streets are narrow, there's a squad car blocking Stiles' view, and the headlights might actually be making it _worse_. Stiles can barely see who they're pursuing.

The squad car in front of them screeches to a halt. Stiles hits the brakes.

"What's going on?" Lydia barks into the radio.

"Suspect cut through the iron works," comes the reply. "We can't fit a car through there."

Lydia jumps out of the jeep and circles around to the back, unzipping the bag she stowed there. The sheriff's squad car pulls up behind them.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sheriff Stilinski says, approaching the jeep. "You two are going in there?"

Stiles kills the engine and gets out. "Have your guys establish a perimeter. Nobody enters, okay? No matter what you hear."

Sheriff Stilinski's eyes go wide as Lydia unpacks a tranquilizer gun and a box of darts. "You sure about that?"

Lydia slings the rifle over her shoulder. "Everything is under control, Sheriff. Maintain the perimeter."

"Stay out here," Stiles says. "Please."

Reluctantly, Sheriff Stilinski nods. "Be careful."

"Yes, sir."

Once they pass the choke point, Lydia unslings the rifle and loads the first dart.

Stiles spots a human-shaped outline in the dark, over by a forklift. He signals to Lydia. She nods and raises the rifle to her shoulder.

"Federal agents!" Stiles shouts. "Get down on the ground!"

"_Stiles?_"

"Derek? What the fuck?"

Derek emerges from the shadows, frayed at the edges but otherwise very much human, warily eyeing the rifle. Stiles reaches out and pushes the gun's muzzle toward the ground.

"Why the _hell_ were you chasing me?" Derek hisses.

"We thought you were the Alpha! Why the hell did you run?"

Something whistles past Stiles' head and hits the forklift. There's a _pop_, and a blinding flash.

"Hunters!" Derek barks, and shoves Stiles down as another arrow flies overhead.

Stiles ducks behind the forklift, blinking to clear his vision. Derek slumps next to him, rubbing at his eyes and growling. Whatever the fuck that flash bomb was made of, it really did a number on him. Stiles peeks around the edge of the forklift and ducks away from the resulting arrow.

"I think it's just the one guy," Stiles says. He looks over at Derek, who's got his head cocked to the side.

Derek says, "More on the way."

"We have a perimeter set up."

"They got past it."

"Sheriff Stilinski really needs better hiring standards," Lydia says from Stiles' other side.

Stiles jumps. "_Sneaky ginger ninja!_"

"Strawberry blonde." Lydia draws her sidearm. "Run for the alley. I'll cover you two."

"Lydia, can you actually see right now?"

"Sort of."

"Right." Stiles grabs Derek's sleeve and drags him away from the forklift. Lydia opens fire.

A car—_Derek's_ car—pulls up at the mouth of the alleyway.

"Shittiest perimeter _ever_," Stiles mutters, teeth clenched.

The Camaro's passenger-side door opens. "Get in!" Scott yells.

Stiles clambers through the door, over the seat, and into the back, pulling Derek with him. Lydia brings up the rear, climbing into the passenger seat. Scott hits the gas and the Camaro takes off.

"Two-door cars are the _worst_," Stiles groans, squashed into the backseat with Derek. "Dude, you couldn't have bought a Sebring or something?"

"_Shit!_" Lydia says.

"Lydia? Are you hurt?"

"No, I left the rifle behind the forklift. It had better still be there when I go back for it."

Stiles takes a few calming breaths. "First question: Derek, why did you run?"

Derek shifts uncomfortably against him. "... I panicked. I didn't know it was you."

"Okay, second question: Scott, why in _pluperfect hell_ are you driving Derek's car?"

"I told him to," Derek says. "I figured the hunters were following me, so I asked Scott to run interference."

Stiles says, "Derek, you and I need to have a conversation about child endangerment laws."

Lydia pulls out her phone and dials. "Sheriff? It's Agent Martin. Call off your men. False tip."

Stiles sighs. "So the Alpha was never at the school."

"He was, he just left before you arrived," Derek says.

"_What?_"

Derek sets his jaw and looks out the window. Stiles elbows him. "No, no, no. Don't pull that 'I am the Lone Wolf' crap. If you communicated a little better, maybe this _colossal fuck-up_ of an evening wouldn't have happened. Come on. Spill."

Derek stares at Stiles for a long moment. Then he pushes Stiles off him so he can reach into his jacket pocket. "I finally found Laura's cache from the night she was murdered."

"'Cache?'"

"Alpha werewolves need to hide their clothes and personal belongings somewhere before they shift." He pulls two slips of paper from his pocket. "These were in her jacket."

The first paper is a list of names, with all but the last name crossed out. All of them end in the surname "Harris." The last name on the list, the only one not crossed out, is "Adrian R. Harris."

"Adrian Harris?" Stiles says. "The chemistry teacher?"

"I went to the school so I could talk to Harris. The Alpha almost beat me to him."

Stiles unfolds the second slip of paper. It's a drawing: some kind of heraldic crest with a wolf on it. "What's this?"

"I don't know," Derek says. "I was hoping Harris could tell me."

Stiles passes the drawing up to Lydia. "You recognize this crest?"

"No." Lydia turns the paper over in her hands. "I'll scan it and send it to HQ. Maybe Archives can get us—"

"I know that symbol!" Scott says.

"How?" Derek growls, leaning into the gap between the front seats.

"It's on a necklace." Scott's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Allison's necklace."

ʘ

"But how do I get the necklace from Allison?" Scott says as he shoulders through the school's front doors.

Stiles gets shoved by one of the many, _many_ students milling about in the halls and resists the urge to start elbowing people. "Just ask her if you can have a look at it. This isn't rocket science."

"We haven't really talked since we broke up. How do I even start?"

"Scott. _Use your words_." Stiles heads in the direction of the office. "I need to go interview Harris. Call me if you strike out."

Adrian Harris is in the principal's office when Stiles gets there. Principal Chaney practically flees the room seconds later.

"So, Mr. Harris. I hear you had an eventful night." Stiles settles into the chair opposite Harris. He's trying to ignore the fact that he used to be in this guy's class. It may or may not be working.

"Look, whatever your investigation is actually about, it doesn't have anything to do with me," Harris says quickly.

"You sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

Stiles pulls the list Derek gave him from his pocket. "Do you know who wrote this list?"

He recognizes the look on Harris' face. That look, simply put, says, 'oh shit.' Harris says, "Laura Hale."

"So you talked to her, then?"

"Yes. She came to see me a few days before she died."

"Why?"

Harris takes a shaky breath. "She'd... started to hear some things. About the fire. My name came up."

"Now why would that be?" Stiles asks dryly.

"You have to understand. I wasn't in a good place six years ago. It was before I got sober."

"Mr. Harris. _What did you tell her?_"

Harris swallows. "I was in a bar. This... woman started talking to me. About my field. She was actually interested, which is... rare. She started asking about the more... practical applications of chemistry. Like how you could use it to melt the locks off a safe, or dissolve a body, or..."

Stiles leans forward. "Or?"

"Or how you could set a fire and make it look like an accident."

Oh, here comes the headache. Hello, headache, you old so-and-so. "And you didn't come forward with this information after the Hale fire _because_...?"

"I was blind drunk!" Harris snaps. "I can barely remember what she looked like! The only thing about her I can clearly remember is the pendant she was wearing."

Stiles fishes the drawing out of his pocket. "This pendant?" he says, showing it to Harris.

Harris nods. "That's the one. Find that, and you'll find the woman."

Stiles leaves the office shortly after that. Scott collides with him in the hall.

"Scott! Change of plan about the—"

"Jackson knows I'm a werewolf," Scott says, a little too loudly.

"... Come again?"

"Jackson. Knows!"

"Now, see, the individual words, sure, but put together like that they don't make any—"

"He wants me to bite him!"

"_How?_ How could he possibly know?" Stiles takes a few deep breaths and pulls Scott further down the hall, away from the office.

"I don't know! He must have put things together after the Alpha attacked us here!" Scott's a little too stressed right now for Stiles' emotional (or physical) well-being.

"Easy, buddy. Calm down. Do Lydia's breathing thing if you have to."

"What do I do?" Scott gasps. "Jackson says if I don't give him the bite, he'll tell Allison what I am."

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and wishes this headache would kindly fuck off. "Stall him. Tell him you'll think about it. We've got bigger things to worry about."

Scott starts to calm down a bit. "Did you get anything from Mr. Harris?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "There's a good chance the necklace belongs to the person behind the Hale fire."

Scott's eyebrows knit together. "Allison set the fire?"

"Yes, that's precisely it, Allison was a ten-year-old criminal mastermind who managed to burn down a house in a town she wasn't even living in at the time. Well done, Scott, you've cracked this one wide open."

"You don't need to get all sarcastic," Scott huffs.

"I need you to find out where she got the necklace from," Stiles says.

Scott nods. "What are you going to do?"

"I've got another lead to chase down." Stiles turns Scott around and gently shoves him. "Get back to class."

ʘ

"Lydia, any luck with Archives?" Stiles says. "Scott might not be able to _Jesus Christ!_"

Lydia isn't waiting for him in the hotel room.

Derek, however, is.

"I have a _phone_," Stiles wheezes, trying to get his heart started again. "Would it kill you to call ahead, just once? How did you even get in here?"

"Agent Martin let me in," Derek says from the chair by the window.

"And where's she?"

"Out."

"... Thanks."

Derek stands and takes a few steps toward Stiles. "You were right. About needing to communicate better."

"Good to hear."

"I need to know what you know. About the murders."

"Uh." Stiles doesn't quite know what to do with his face. "It's not like I don't trust you, but—"

"Please," Derek says, and his expression is more open than Stiles has ever seen it.

Stiles nods. "Okay." He sits down on the bed, expecting Derek to go back to the chair. He doesn't, standing over the bed instead. Stiles continues, "We think the Alpha is going after people who can be tied to your family's deaths."

Derek's eyes narrow. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Actually, it kind of does. Three of his victims have priors for arson. Another one was the insurance investigator assigned to your family's case."

"And Laura?"

Stiles hesitates. He _really_ wants this to come out right. "... We think she may have been Kate Argent's asset inside the family."

"You're wrong," Derek says immediately, mouth set in a grim line.

"Look, I'm not saying she did it on _purpose_. Maybe Argent tricked her, or—"

"_It wasn't Laura_," Derek snarls.

Stiles puts his hands up. "Okay, okay, if you're so sure. Anyway, Harris provided the information on how to make the fire look natural. That's why the Alpha went after _him_."

"And the necklace?"

"The necklace... might be the piece of evidence we need to charge Argent," Stiles says. "If we can prove she was the owner of that necklace six years ago, and get Adrian Harris to testify... we've got her."

Derek looks like he's experiencing some very complicated emotions. "What do you need?"

"From you? Leads on who the Alpha might be. Do you have any surviving relatives I should know about? Other werewolves who would feel the need to get revenge for what happened to your family?"

Derek shakes his head. "There isn't anyone. We were pretty isolated out here."

Stiles' phone rings. "Gimme a second," Stiles says to Derek, and answers the phone. "Scott? Any luck?"

"Allison told me not to talk to her," Scott says.

"What did you _do?_"

"Nothing! She just... she said she needs more time."

"So you have no idea where she got the necklace," Stiles says. Derek's expression turns murderous. Stiles waves at him to sit the fuck down.

"Sorry," Scott says.

"It's okay. We'll figure something else out." Stiles hangs up.

"Well, now what?" Derek says.

Stiles gestures at the table, scrolling through his phone's contacts. "Pass me my computer. Allison got a text message the night of the attack at the school. It was from Scott, only you smashed the fuck out of Scott's phone a day before the message was sent."

Derek hands Stiles the laptop. Stiles finds the number he needs and starts the call, pulling up his e-mail on the computer.

The phone rings a few times before it's picked up. "What do you want, cockbite?"

Stiles opens the message he received this morning from the phone company. "You talk to all your coworkers like that, Dave?"

"Just the ones who break up with me over e-mail," Dave says.

"This is for a case, okay? I've got a text message here from a spoofed number. I need you to find out who the original sender was."

There's a moment of silence from Dave, then: "Do you have _any_ idea what that would entail?"

"I was a history major, what do _you_ think?"

Dave sighs. "Give me the details. I'll see what I can do. No promises."

Stiles rattles off the information Allison's phone company sent him. "Thanks, Dave."

Dave says, "Yeah, yeah," and hangs up.

When Stiles looks up from the computer, Derek is regarding him with raised eyebrows. "'Cockbite?'"

"I don't have the greatest track record with relationships, okay?"

ʘ

An hour or so goes by in comfortable silence. Stiles dicks around on his laptop and Derek gravitates toward Stiles' copy of _The Last Words of Notable People_ again.

Stiles is halfway through the _Sam & Max: Freelance Police_ page on TVTropes when he gets a call on Skype.

It's a video call, which Dave has hooked up to a virtual webcam so Stiles can see his desktop. "Can't you just call me on the phone like a normal person?" Stiles says.

"Fuck you, I'm not paying long distance charges." Dave maximizes a window on his desktop so Stiles can see. "You're in luck. I managed to get you an IP address."

"Dave, you are literally my favorite person right now. Can you trace it?"

"Give me a second." A few more windows open. "Whoa, whoa, who is _that?_"

Stiles looks over his shoulder. Derek is _way_ closer than he usually is, leaning over Stiles' shoulder so he can see the screen.

"Uh, that's Derek Hale," Stiles says. "He's in my report."

Derek blinks. "I'm in a report?"

"Passing mention."

"Have you called dibs already?" Dave asks, sounding like a kid in a candy store. "'Cause... _damn_."

"Dave. Focus."

"Right." An alert pops up on the screen. "There we go. Your mystery text came from the Beacon Hills Long Term Care facility's network."

"Thanks. I'll bring you that tea thing you like next time I'm in the office."

"You'd better." Dave ends the call.

"The _nursing home?_" Derek says.

"That place has a really small staff, right? All we have to do is find out who was on the night shift when the text was sent." Stiles stands and grabs his jacket. "Come on. Road trip."

ʘ

Lydia calls while they're on the road. Stiles answers, says, "Distracted driving law, call you back," and hangs up. He calls her once they're parked outside the nursing home.

"Where have you been all afternoon?" Stiles says.

"Tailing the Argents. Where are _you?_"

"That spoofed text was sent from the nursing home. I'm about to go in and poke around."

Lydia says, "Are you sure you should be going in there without backup?"

"I've got backup," Stiles replies. "Derek's with me."

"_Is_ he now?"

"Lydia..."

"No, no, this is a _development_." Oh god, she's using her Mad Scientist voice. "You _like_ him, don't you? He's your Special Wolf."

"I'm hanging up now."

Stiles throws his phone onto the dashboard and leans his forehead against the steering wheel. "Can you just pretend you didn't hear that?"

"I'll think about it," Derek says, disgustingly deadpan.

Stiles sighs and sits up. "Okay, watch the exits for me."

It's getting dark already. Stiles crosses the parking lot, steps through the front doors, and waves at the nurse behind the desk.

"Can I help you?" the nurse says.

Stiles shows her his badge. "Can you tell me who was on shift at about six last Wednesday night?"

The nurse thinks it over. "Myself, a few orderlies, and the cleaning crew, I believe."

"How many of those people have computer access?"

"Just me."

"And you would be...?"

"Jennifer Fitzgerald." The nurse is starting to look a little alarmed. "What's this about?"

"Ms. Fitzgerald, last Wednesday a text message was sent from one of these computers, and that message put two young people in a position to be killed."

Jennifer starts edging along the side of the desk. Stiles follows her.

"I don't know anything about that," she says.

"Look, I'm not trying to be the bad guy here. I just need you to come down to the station, answer a few questions."

"I'd rather not."

"Ma'am, if you don't cooperate that could be considered obstruction of a federal investigation, which is kind of a big deal these days—"

The nurse reaches the end of the desk and shouts, "_Peter!_"

There's a snarl from down the hall.

ʘ

"_Peter!_"

Derek hears the Alpha and is out of the jeep and running before he even stops to think.

He bursts through the doors and sees Stiles, rapidly backing away. The Alpha advances on him, on all fours, hackles raised, huge in the confined space of the hall. In the harsh fluorescent light, Derek can clearly see the burn scars covering half the Alpha's face.

"Stiles! Get down!"

Derek charges.

Peter is bigger and heavier, but Derek's attacking from his blind side. He knocks them both into the desk. It shatters beneath them.

Peter rolls and snaps at Derek's shoulder, drawing blood. Derek slashes his claws across Peter's good eye. Peter howls in pain and smacks Derek across the hall, claws gouging into his chest.

Derek hits the wall, hard. He struggles to his knees as Peter crawls from the wreckage of the desk, shouldering debris aside.

Peter lunges. Grabs the back of Derek's neck in his jaws, ready to bite—

Jennifer screams.

Peter freezes. A low growl erupts from his throat.

Out the corner of his eye, Derek sees Stiles. It looks like Jennifer tried to make a break for it, but Stiles grabbed her and tried to cuff her. He's still got her arms held behind her back.

"Easy there," Stiles says, eyes on Peter, not making any sudden moves. "I'm not hurting her."

Jennifer struggles. Stiles tightens his grip. Peter's growl gets louder.

Stiles takes a step forward, pushing Jennifer ahead of him. "Trade you. Give me Derek, and you get your girlfriend back. What do you say?"

Peter releases Derek's neck.

Stiles takes another step forward. "Good choice. Easy." Another. "Easy now."

He shoves Jennifer at Peter, grabs Derek by the back of his jacket, and drags him out the door.

ʘ

Stiles finds it incredibly hard to drive with a werewolf hyperventilating in the passenger seat.

"Derek, are you going to shift in my car? Because I just had the seats reupholstered." Stiles white-knuckles the steering wheel. He's speeding. He doesn't care.

Derek's breathing evens out a bit. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. Can't say the same about you." Stiles starts to ease up on the gas. "What the hell happened back there?"

"Peter is the Alpha," Derek says, like he can't quite believe it himself.

"Yeah, I got that."

"He killed her," Derek continues. "He killed Laura so he could become Alpha."

"How can _comatose uncle Peter_ be the Alpha? Was he faking it?"

"I don't... no." Derek leans back against the headrest, eyes closed, brows furrowed. "I think... Peter Hale the human is gone. But Peter Hale the werewolf is still alive."

"Oh, Robert Louis Stevenson would have a fucking _field day_ with that," Stiles says. "What about Jennifer? I guess she's the brains of the operation, but why did Peter react like that when I grabbed her?"

"He's fixated on her."

"What, some kind of werewolf soul-bonding thing?"

"No," Derek says, in what Stiles has come to recognize as Derek's _you-know-nothing-about-__werewolves_ voice. "More like... have you ever been mesmerized by someone? By their voice, or the way they look?"

"Ten-year crush on Lydia Martin, remember?"

"Okay, imagine that, but with senses like mine."

"... Wow. I think I see what you're getting at. So, basically, Peter has a werewolf _crush_ on his nurse?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. It's an obsession."

Something clicks in Stiles' head. "Wait, is this why Scott is so... yeah... when it comes to Allison?"

"Scott fixated on Allison. Just like Peter to Jennifer, or me to—" Derek cuts off suddenly.

Stiles glances over at Derek, who's glaring resolutely out the passenger-side window.

"You, to...?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Okay..." Stiles lets out a long breath. "So, mystery solved. We know who the Alpha is. Now what?"

"I don't know."


	10. Prayers by Night

**Notes:** Beta by Dusty, whose life I have probably ruined with this story. Sorry, Dusty.

**Chapter Ten: Prayers by Night**

Derek is still bleeding when they get back to the hotel, so Stiles drags him into the bathroom.

"Goddamnit, I'm sick of this bathtub," Derek growls, leaning back against the cold tile, as Stiles' phone starts to ring.

Stiles sits on the edge of the tub and answers the phone.

"The Argents think Jackson Whittemore is a werewolf," Lydia says as soon as he picks up.

"_What?_"

"I eavesdropped on them at the lacrosse game. They're making a move soon. And if they interrogate Jackson—"

Stiles' phone beeps. There's another call coming in. "Lydia, hold on a second." He switches lines. "Scott?"

"Stiles, there's a problem!"

"Yeah, no shit."

"The Alpha just showed up in the locker room!"

"Oh holy fuck. Are you okay?"

Derek sits up suddenly, winces, and gently eases back against the wall.

"I'm fine," Scott says, still sounding pretty shaken. "There was this woman. With the Alpha. She wants me to help kill the Argents!"

"I... this... hang on a second." Stiles switches lines. "Lydia? Go find Scott and bring him back to the hotel." He switches back. "Scott? Lydia's coming to get you. We'll talk once you get here."

Stiles ends both calls and pitches his phone into the sink, trying not to scream in frustration.

ʘ

Once the bleeding stops, Derek drags himself out of the tub and collapses onto Stiles' bed. Lydia and Scott arrive shortly afterward.

"Okay, everybody exchange notes," Stiles says. "I'll go first. Peter Hale is the Alpha."

Lydia frowns. "That's not possible."

"Apparently it is," Stiles says.

Derek adds, "Peter's still a werewolf. He's not aware while he's human, but if he shifts..." He trails off with a shrug.

Scott says, "What about the woman?"

"Peter's nurse," Stiles says. "Her name is Jennifer Fitzgerald. She's been helping him. Next."

Lydia says, "The Argents know there are three werewolves in Beacon Hills right now: Derek, the Alpha, and third, unknown Beta. They think Jackson Whittemore might be that Beta.."

"Why's that?" Stiles asks.

"He survived two run-ins with the Alpha. And apparently his behavior has been... erratic, lately."

Scott says, "But Jackson knows I'm—"

"Yes, which is why we have a problem," Lydia interrupts. "Next."

"No, not next," Derek says, trying to sit up. "_What_ does Jackson Whittemore know?"

"He knows Scott's a werewolf," Stiles says. "He wants the bite."

"_Next_," Lydia snaps.

"The Alpha and his... Jennifer want my help killing the Argents," Scott says. "She said they have to pay for what they've done."

Stiles flops backward onto the bed, landing partially sprawled across Derek's legs. "Well, this is a nice little clusterfuck we've got here."

"Should we even be trying to stop Peter?" Derek says.

Stiles sits up and glares at Derek. "Are you serious? He killed your sister! He's a team-killler!"

"He has a point," Lydia says. "This looks like the kind of situation that will resolve itself if we leave it alone."

"Yeah, sure, and how many people will get caught in the crossfire?" Stiles snaps.

"Like Allison!" Scott says.

Derek shoves Stiles off his legs and lurches to his feet. "Kate needs to be punished for what she did."

"And she will be," Stiles says. "But not by _him_. That's not how it works."

Derek doesn't answer, just walks out of the room and lets the door slam closed behind him.

"I guess he's feeling better," Stiles says.

Lydia snaps her fingers to get everybody's attention. "So, taking into account Mr. Hale's non-participation, what's the plan?"

Stiles scrubs a hand over his hair, trying to get his thoughts in order. "Scott, what did you tell Jennifer?"

"I told them no," Scott says. "They said I'd change my mind soon."

"They didn't give you a time limit or anything?"

"No. Jackson did, though. He says either I turn him before the Winter Formal, or he tells Allison about me."

"Which, considering who her father is, might as well be a death sentence," Lydia says.

"Lydia, stop helping," Stiles says. "Okay. Scott. Keep stalling Jackson. And if you think the Alpha's about to come after you again, go to the police station."

Scott nods. "You'll keep Allison safe, right?"

"I promise."

ʘ

Honestly, Lydia doesn't expect Jennifer Fitzgerald to show up to work after the events of last night, but she makes the trip out to the nursing home anyway, just in case.

Georgia, the remaining nurse, is very apologetic when she explains that Jennifer hasn't reported in for her afternoon shift.

On the way back to the station, Lydia sees something go explosively wrong with the Porsche ahead of her. It pulls onto a side street, and a red SUV follows. It's only after Lydia's missed the turn that she recognizes the SUV. She pulls an illegal u-turn and circles back.

When she pulls up, Jackson Whittemore and Chris Argent are bent over the open back panel of the Porsche.

"Hello, Mr. Argent," Lydia says as she gets out of the jeep. "Mr. Whittemore. Car trouble?"

"It's all under control, Agent Martin," Argent says, all smiles. He's got Jackson's shoulder in a tight grip.

"You should probably leave it," Lydia says, voice chirpy and pleasant. "I'm sure you don't want to go voiding the warranty."

"Trust me, I know a thing or two about cars."

Lydia steps closer. "I saw an auto shop a few miles back. I can give Mr. Whittemore a lift."

"That won't be necessary," Argent says.

Jackson says, "Actually, uh..."

Lydia smiles. "Best to leave it to the professionals, Mr. Argent."

Argent's eyes narrow. Lydia cocks her head to the side. Her smile gets wider.

"I think I'll just go with Agent Martin," Jackson says.

Something dark passes across Argent's expression, but he releases Jackson's shoulder. Jackson scurries toward Lydia's car. Argent walks up to the driver's side of the Porsche and leans in to reach the ignition.

The Porsche's engine turns over.

"There we go," Argent says. "Problem solved."

"Uh... Thanks," Jackson says.

"Not a problem." Argent grins, gets back in his SUV, and drives away.

Jackson visibly sags with relief as soon as Argent is gone. "What the hell was that?"

"He thinks you're a werewolf," Lydia says.

"He... what? Why would he think that?"

"Well, a multitude of reasons, some of which involve your poor life choices." Lydia reaches up and claps Jackson on the shoulder. "Speaking of. Scott tells me you want the bite."

Jackson stares at her for a second. "You _would_ know that."

"Can't blame you, really," Lydia says. "I saw Scott at the game. He was rather impressive. It's only natural you'd want to be on that level. Though I don't suppose Scott explained all the drawbacks."

"He told me about the hunters." Jackson sets his jaw. "And if they're after me anyway, then I _need_ the bite. So I can defend myself."

"It's not just the hunters. I've seen what happens when someone your age turns."

"You mean you've seen _McCall_," Jackson says with a sneer. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he's not really the poster boy for restraint."

"And you are?"

Jackson shrugs off Lydia's hand. "I can handle it," he says, and walks back to his car.

"Your life isn't the only one on the line here, Mr. Whittemore," Lydia replies. "Keep out of trouble."

ʘ

This is probably a really bad time for Stiles to have dinner with his dad, but to be fair the plans were made before the Grand Clusterfuck occurred. Besides, Sheriff Stilinski needs to eat something that doesn't come out of a fast food bag or a microwave.

"So how's the case going?" the sheriff says after the waitress has taken their orders.

Stiles says, "Uh, NDA-friendly version? Good news is, we know who did it. Bad news is, the suspect's gone missing."

"This have anything to do with that APB you put out this morning? The Fitzgerald woman?"

"Yeah." Stiles tips forward until his forehead is pressed against the table. "Everything is horrible."

"Stop that, you're in a public place," his dad chides.

"I'm a federal agent, I can have a nervous breakdown in public if I want to." Stiles lifts his head from the tabletop. "Funny thing about this job. Even the weirdest cases boil down to the most stupid, _human_ motives."

"You sound like you're about to quit. Are you?"

"Fuck no, my job is awesome."

After a moment, Sheriff Stilinski says, "What about Derek Hale? I heard he's been seen around your hotel."

"You're an Orwellian nightmare, Dad." Stiles props his head up on one of his hands. "Derek is... I have no idea what's going on there. I _thought_ he was helping."

"Didn't you arrest him once or twice?"

"Just the once." Stiles toys with the straw in his drink. "I trust him, is the thing. Even now."

Sheriff Stilinski says, "Well, if he's ever any trouble, I can have somebody from the force pay him a visit."

Stiles' head shoots up. "_God_, no. _Do not do that_."

ʘ

Dinner goes late enough that their waitress starts hovering over the table, waiting for them to leave. The sun has set by the time they get outside. Stiles waits until Sheriff Stilinski's car has pulled out of the lot before he heads back to the jeep.

"I remember you, you know."

"_Fuck!_" Stiles jumps and drops his keys. Jennifer's ditched the scrubs-and-ponytail look for something a little more motorcycle-casual. And she's between him and the jeep. "Ms. Fitzgerald, hey. Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's close." Jennifer smiles. "I remember your mother, too. You were always hanging around her room, even when you were supposed to be at school."

"That's... really great." Stiles' gun is in the jeep. Stiles left his gun in the jeep because he is an _idiot_.

"You were such a sweet boy." Jennifer's smile disappears. "I want you to know how sorry I am."

"Yeah, you're about seven years behind everybody else with the condolences, but thanks." Stiles scans the parking lot. Empty. Fuck.

"Not for your mother. For you. We can't let you get in our way. I'm sorry."

A pair of red eyes appear in the shadows behind Jennifer.

"Oh, _hell_," Stiles whines.

There's a growl from behind Stiles. "Get away from him."

Stiles turns. "Derek?"

Derek growls again, louder, glaring past Jennifer. "You kill him, and I'll kill her."

Jennifer lifts her chin. "You're not a killer, Derek."

"Try me."

Jennifer regards Derek for a moment, then steps away. The red eyes in the dark disappear, and so does she.

Stiles snatches up his keys and runs for the jeep. Derek follows him, climbs into the passenger seat, and they peel out of the parking lot.

ʘ

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, shouldering through the hotel room door. Derek follows him in. Stiles throws the deadbolt and puts the chain up. "That was a little too close."

"Where's Agent Martin?" Derek asks. There's a wild look in his eyes. Stiles imagines he must be wearing a pretty similar expression on his face.

"Tailing the Argents. Are you still all 'werewolf vigilante justice,' or...?"

"No," Derek pants, stepping in close. "But I can't challenge Peter. Not on my own."

"Okay, I'm with you. What do you need?"

Derek kisses him.

Stiles... well. He flails. A bit. Derek presses him up against the wall. Stiles moans into the kiss and grabs at Derek's jacket, pulling him closer.

So he's been going through a bit of a dry spell. Stiles is okay with that. Work's been keeping him busy, and relationships aren't easy with all the traveling he does, and one-night stands aren't really his thing, so... yeah. Totally okay with that.

Only now Derek's licking into his mouth and Stiles is very suddenly _not_ okay with the dry spell anymore.

Derek doesn't seem to know where to put his hands. Stiles has been on the receiving end of 'I've never been with a guy before' enough times to recognize it immediately, so he grabs Derek's wrists. Moves his hands to Stiles' waist. Gets his fingers in Derek's hair and drags him even closer.

Then Derek moves down to Stiles' neck, mouthing his pulse, and says, "Let me bite you."

Stiles freezes. "_What?_"

Derek pulls the collar of Stiles' t-shirt aside and licks at the spot where Stiles' neck meets his shoulder. "I need a pack. To fight Peter. Scott's not enough." He pulls back and fixes Stiles with a stare that could mean either 'I'm going to eat you' or 'I'm going to eat you in a more metaphorical sense.' "You're clever. You're loyal. You'd make a good wolf."

"I..." Stiles sucks down a few deep breaths. "... No, thank you?"

"_Please_," Derek says, desperate. "I need you."

Stiles swallows and pushes Derek back until they're no longer breathing the same air. "The answer's no. I'm sorry."

Derek's face settles into that familiar scowl. "I see." He steps away, unlocks the door, and is through it and down the stairs before Stiles has a chance to call him back.

Stiles smacks his head back against the wall. "God-_fucking_-dammit."

He grabs his phone and sends Lydia a text: _meet me at the office_.

ʘ

"He did _what?_"

Stiles flops into his desk chair. "Which part are you surprised about, the kissing or the attempted biting?"

"Attempted biting," Lydia says. "The kissing was only a matter of time."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"_Why_ did he want to bite you?"

"He said he needed more wolves to take on Peter."

Lydia snorts. "So he asked _you?_"

"Shut up, apparently I'd make a pretty badass werewolf." Stiles sighs and leans back in his chair, which squeaks in protest.

Lydia is mysteriously quiet for a moment, then says, more gently, "Stiles... is this a thing?"

"Come again?"

"You and Derek. Are you two a real, no joking, let's-talk-about-our-feelings _thing?_"

Stiles groans and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. "I... maybe?"

"'_Maybe?_'"

"I don't know!" It's _Derek_, for fuck's sake. Stiles has been too busy keeping the angsty son of a bitch out of trouble to think about relationships, or werewolf mating, or _whatever_. (A distant, evil part of his brain whispers, "knotting" and runs away, cackling.) The chair squeaks again. "Up until now, I didn't even know it was an option. And it's probably a bad idea. Derek's... not in a good place right now."

"Hmm."

"Uh oh." Stiles sits up. "I know that 'hmm.' What are you thinking?"

Lydia leans across Stiles' desk. "If he's desperate enough to try and turn you... would he try to turn others?"

"Others? Like who?"

ʘ

The boy is afraid. Derek can smell it on him.

"You're not ready," Derek says. He'll have to go back. Find someone else. Someone who doesn't look up at the Hale house and leak abject terror from every pore.

"No. I am." Jackson's hands clench into fists. "I want to be like you. Please."

He isn't lying, but this is still a terrible idea.

Derek nods at the front door of the house. "In there."

Jackson turns. Contemplates the rotted steps and blackened walls. "Is it safe?"

"Pretty soon, that won't matter."

Jackson rolls his shoulders back. Steps up to the door and opens it. Derek is right behind him, following him into the house.

"Holy shit." Jackson looks around, taking in the damage, eyes wide. Derek waits.

Finally, Jackson turns to Derek. "What happens now?"

Derek steps forward, putting a hand on Jackson's shoulder. He feels his teeth start to lengthen. "Hold still."

The flashbang grenade comes in through the broken front window.

"Close your eyes!" Derek shouts, bringing his sleeve up to cover his face. The grenade goes off.

When he pulls his arm away, he sees that Jackson wasn't so lucky. The boy is frantically scrubbing at his eyes, shaking his head.

Derek can barely hear the gunfire, only knows it for what it is when the door is torn to shreds. He tackles Jackson out of the way.

His hearing is starting to recover; he hears Jackson's muted shout of, "What the _fuck?_"

Derek shoves Jackson toward the back door. "Run! I'll hold them off!"

Jackson flees, and Derek throws open the ruined front door.

ʘ

"Okay, thanks." Stiles ends the call. "Someone matching Derek's description was seen at the school about half an hour ago."

Lydia stands and grabs her jacket. "Let's hope he hasn't done anything stupid. Yet."

From the other side of the office door, somebody says, "They're right in here."

The door opens. Jackson stands in the doorway, pale and wide-eyed. There's an officer behind him.

"Jackson?" Stiles says, waving the officer away. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Derek," Jackson says.

Lydia crowds into Jackson's space, eyes narrowed. She looks him up and down. "Did he bite you?"

"No." Jackson scrambles back out of Lydia's reach. "The hunters. They came after us."

"And Derek?" Stiles says, dreading the answer.

"I think they have him."


	11. The Silver Cane

**Notes:** One day, the UN will force me to pay reparations for this fucking fic. Beta by Dusty, who once killed a man in Perth because he needed to die more than any she'd ever met.

Chapter warning for vague descriptions of torture.

**Chapter Eleven: The Silver Cane**

They have Derek's arms chained above his head and a voltage multiplier wired into his side.

There's a girl here. Allison. Kate talks to her, teaches her. Pokes and prods at him like a professor with a fresh specimen.

Then Kate turns the electricity on and watches him scream.

Kate smiles. Allison backs into the corner of the room, tears rolling down her face in silence.

ʘ

Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet, hand on his holster. "Come on, come on. What's taking so long?"

"I haven't picked a lock in _forever_," Lydia snaps back at him. "You're the one who said we couldn't wait for a search warrant." There's a distinct _click_. "Ah! There we go."

Lydia slides the deadbolt open and draws her gun.

"Ready?" Stiles says.

"Ready. Go."

The door opens with an obnoxiously loud, rattling groan. Stiles draws and ducks inside, Lydia following.

The warehouse is big, high stacks of crates turning the place into a practical labyrinth. There could be hunters hiding around every corner.

Only there aren't.

Stiles runs two separate search patterns through the warehouse before letting out a high, frustrated groan.

Lydia calls, "Clear!"

"This can't be right," Stiles says, holstering his gun. "There must be a trap door, or a secret room, or _something_."

Lydia appears from around the corner. "I'm _very_ thorough, Stiles. There's nothing here."

Stiles starts to pace. "Then there must be another warehouse, or a safe house, or—"

"Stiles." Lydia steps in front of him and grabs both his arms to stop him in his tracks. "This is the only property the Argents own in Beacon Hills, besides their house. We can't kick down every door in the county."

"We have to find him, Lydia," Stiles breathes. "It's my fault they have him."

Lydia gives him a firm shake. "No, it's not. Now get your shit together. We have work to do."

Stiles takes a few shuddering breaths. "You have a plan."

"If the Argents have Derek, then the Argents can lead us to him," Lydia says. "I may be able to get us an asset inside the family."

"Well, it worked for Kate," Stiles says with a weak smile. "And I get the feeling you already have someone in mind."

ʘ

Lydia finds her in the mall, waiting on an order at the coffee shop. She looks tired.

"Allison, right?" Lydia says, leaning against the counter.

Allison starts. "Agent Martin?"

Smiling, Lydia says, "Please, it's my day off. Call me Lydia."

"Okay," Allison says. "Is there something you need from me?"

Allison's drink arrives, and she steps away from the counter.

Lydia follows. "Oh, I've just been worried about you since the incident at the school. I saw you and thought I'd check in."

"That's... very thoughtful. Thanks."

Lydia makes a show of looking around. "So who are you here with?"

"It's just me, actually. I need to get a dress for the Winter Formal."

Lydia's jaw drops open. "And you're shopping for one _by yourself?_"

"I... yeah, I guess." Allison brushes her hair behind her ear, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, that just won't do." Lydia hooks her arm through Allison's and leads her out of the coffee shop. "We'll do Macy's first, and then the smaller boutiques if we don't find anything there."

"Agent Martin—"

"Lydia."

"Lydia... I'm sure you have more important things to do than go dress shopping with me."

"Probably, but this is more fun."

ʘ

"So who are you going to the dance with?" Lydia asks through the change room door.

"Uh... Jackson. Jackson Whittemore."

"Ooh. Well done, you."

There's a brief, tight laugh from Allison that quickly turns into a cough. "No, it's not like that. We're just friends."

"Of course. My mistake." Lydia gives it a few seconds, then adds, "So you're not going with Scott? I thought you two were dating."

"... We broke up."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it was mutual."

"It... no. I broke up with him."

Lydia knocks playfully at the door. "Good call. You can do better."

"No, no, it wasn't that, it was..." Allison hesitates. Lydia thinks she hears a sniff. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be crying about my relationship problems to you."

Lydia leans closer to the door and lowers her voice. "You know, usually, when somebody opens up to me like that? It's because they don't think they have anybody else to talk to."

"That's not true, though. I've got my Aunt Kate. But..."

"But something's changed," Lydia prompts.

There's a sound like Allison is choking back a sob. "I just don't think I should let myself be weak around her anymore."

Lydia smiles, and makes sure it colors her voice. "Well, you can be weak around me all you like, Allison. I won't tell a soul. I'm already keeping plenty of secrets."

The door opens, and Allison steps out, rubbing at her eyes and wearing one of the dresses they'd picked: black, empire waist, red tulle buoying the skirt. Allison says, "What do you think?"

Lydia considers. "Hmm. Washes you out. Try some of the lighter ones."

The door closes again. After a moment, Allison says, "It's just... that night, at the school. Agent Stilinski got hurt, and I _know_ Scott was involved somehow, but he wouldn't tell me what happened."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you either," Lydia says. "Classified."

"I know." Allison takes a deep breath. "I broke up with him because I couldn't trust him."

Lydia's fingers tap against the door. "'Couldn't?' Past tense?"

"Well. I guess I still can't. Only lately... I've really started to miss him. And he's _there_, every day at school, and sometimes I think..." She lets out a small laugh. "That's stupid, right? I sound like That Girl."

"I've met That Girl. Trust me, you're not her." Lydia adopts a thoughtful tone. "_However_, you need to be able to trust the people you love. And if they're doing things to make you distrust them... well, you probably need to reevaluate their place in your life. That goes for everybody. Boyfriends, friends... family."

"I guess." Another sniff. "Okay, I think this is the one."

The door opens again. Allison's wearing one of the dresses Lydia hadn't been too sure about: strapless, pale satin. On the rack, it looked iffy.

On Allison, it looks amazing.

Lydia grins. "Perfect. Now, shoes."

ʘ

The only reason Stiles isn't climbing the walls right now is because he's been elbow-deep in the Beacon County property registry for the last ten hours. When his phone goes off, he answers before the first ring even finishes.

"Agent Stilinski."

"Stiles?" Scott says. "I need your help."

Stiles shoots to his feet, scattering papers. "Are you okay? Is Jennifer back? Is the Alpha after you? Did the Argents find out about you? I'm on my way. Where are you?"

"What? I'm fine! Did you skip your meds this morning?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm all medicated, _thanks_. I've been under a lot of stress, okay? _What's going on?_"

Scott says, "I need you to help me sneak into the Winter Formal."

Stiles thinks he may hear an actual cricket chirping. "... Scott, I think we should discuss your priorities for a second."

"No, this is important! The Alpha's going after the Argents, right? Including Allison. She's gonna be at the formal. I have to protect her."

Stupid fucking werewolf fixation _bullshit_. "Why do you need to sneak into the formal, anyway? Didn't you buy a ticket?"

"... Coach says I can't go."

"Why not?"

"Uh..." Scott stumbles for a few seconds before he finally chokes out, "Because I might be failing three classes."

Seriously, somebody smash that fucking cricket. "You're _what?_"

"Don't freak out!" Scott says quickly. "We can talk about this later!"

"Scott Elizabeth McCall, I am _so_ telling your mom on you!"

"Stiles!" Scott pleads. "You're the only person who can help me!"

Stiles blows out a breath and rearranges some of the papers he knocked askew. "Okay, okay. What are you gonna do if Peter and Jennifer go after Allison at the dance? The last time you went up against the Alpha, it didn't go well."

"I don't know! But me being there has to be better than me not being there, right?"

Stiles flops back into his chair. "You have a point. But I can't just show up at the school, flash my badge, and demand that they let you in. It would draw too much attention. How am I supposed to help you sneak in?"

"Actually, I had an idea about that."

ʘ

"_Kate, it's Chris. I'm getting sick of calling you. I need to know where you are. Call me back._"

Kate lets out an annoyed sigh and deletes the message from her voicemail. She taps the phone against her lips for a moment, then waves her assistant—a middle-aged man who possesses a fascination with baseball bats—out of the room. "So, what's the deal with the feds?"

Still twitching from the last electric shock, Derek grinds out, "You'll have to be a little more specific."

"Okay, let me ask this in a more direct way." Kate drops her phone on the table and steps into Derek's space. "How much do they know?"

"Everything."

Kate grins. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sure you haven't told them _everything_."

Derek glares at her.

"Funny little operation they've got going," Kate says, moving away. "The FDSI is only twelve years old, did you know that? They don't recruit through any of the standard channels, they hire agents who haven't even finished college yet, and nobody transfers in from other departments. And up until now, they've managed to fly completely under our radar." She turns back to Derek. "That Agent Stilinski, he's a cute little thing, isn't he?"

Derek's hands clench into fists. He sets his jaw.

Kate laughs. "Sweetie, you haven't gone and replaced me, have you? After all the fun we had together?"

"Shut up," Derek growls.

Kate steps in close again. "I wouldn't get too attached, if I were you. After you tell us who the Alpha is, and we kill him, I may have to conduct a little clean-up. And if you told your little boyfriend _everything_... well, I'll have to make sure he can't report back to his bosses, won't I?"

Derek lunges at her, as far as the chains allow.

Kate dances back and laughs again.

ʘ

Stiles takes one look at the inside of the gym, with the pounding music and flashing lights, and immediately pops two Motrin as a preventative measure.

It's Allison who spots him first. "Agent Stilinski? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"It's fine, Allison. I volunteered as a chaperone." And fuck Scott's stupid fucking plans.

Jackson appears and hands Allison a glass of punch. "Agent Stilinski?"

Allison sees the pained expression on Stiles' face and says, "He's chaperoning."

"Huh." Jackson checks over his shoulder. "Allison, I need to talk to Agent Stilinski. In private."

Allison's eyes flick between Jackson and Stiles, a calculating look on her face, but she says, "Sure," and strolls off toward the bleachers.

As soon as she's out of range, Jackson says, "Did I leave my phone at the police station?"

"You told your date to fuck off so you could ask me _that?_" Stiles says, incredulous.

"I don't want her or her family to know I was there!" hisses Jackson. "Now have you seen my phone?"

Stiles shrugs. "Sorry. Haven't seen it. When was the last time you had it?"

"I know I had it with me right before—" Jackson pauses. "Right before I left with Derek last night."

"You mean you had it with you at the Hale house?"

Jackson nods. "Maybe I dropped it?"

The wheels are turning in Stiles' head. "Yeah, maybe."

Stiles' phone buzzes. He's got a text message from Scott: _i'm here_.

"Excuse me," Stiles says, and heads for the locker rooms.

Scott's waiting on the other side of the doors to the lacrosse field. Stiles lets him in. "Where'd you get the suit?"

"Thrift store," Scott says.

"Really? It's not bad. How'd you get all the blood out?"

"Ha ha. Is Allison here yet?"

"She's in the gym." As Scott passes, Stiles adds, "And stay out of trouble, for god's sake."

"Yep," Scott says.

Lydia is leaning on the wall outside the gym when Stiles gets back. He says, "What's the status with Allison?"

"She's on edge, maybe even having doubts about her family. It's possible she knows where they're keeping Derek. And what her family's doing to him."

"All right. Stay on her. I think I've got another lead."

ʘ

Stiles climbs into the jeep and grabs his phone, dialing. Five rings go by before it's picked up.

"It is eleven at night, you son of a bitch."

"It's Saturday!"

"Yeah, and between the drunken idiots under my bedroom window and your stupid fucking phone call, I'm on the verge of going postal, so you'd better tell me what you want before I start shopping for Uzis."

"Dave, I'm sorry, but I really need your help," Stiles says. "I need a GPS trace on a cellphone."

"I'm not even at the office!"

"So get on VPN! This is an emergency!"

Dave groans. "Fine, fine. You got a number?"

"Just the location and name. Beacon Hills, California. The phone belongs to Jackson Whittemore, but he's underage so the contract likely isn't in his name."

"All right, give me a second."

Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel and tries to sit still.

"Here we go," Dave says. "Family plan, contract under the name Whittemore. Two Blackberries and an iPhone. I'm going assume the kid's the one with the iPhone. Fucking Fisher-Price shitware."

"Can you track it?"

"On it right now." A few minutes of muttering and typing go by. "Okay, I've got the coordinates. Sending them to your phone now."

Stiles sighs in relief. "Thanks. I owe you."

"'Owe you' nothing, Stilinski. You're totally my bitch forever after this."

"Goodnight, Dave." Stiles hangs up and checks his texts, then plugs the coordinates Dave sent him into the GPS app on his phone.

They point to the Hale house.

Stiles glares at his phone, waiting for it to explain. It does no such thing. "What the hell?"

Maybe Jackson did just drop his phone at the house. Maybe Derek didn't grab it after all.

Stiles starts the jeep and pulls out of the parking lot. It's worth a look.

ʘ

There should be a word in the English language for the intersection of fond nostalgia with annoyance at being surrounded by children with terrible taste in music. It would perfectly sum up Lydia's emotional state as she sits atop the bleachers, watching Scott flee from Coach Finstock.

Oh, now he's asking another boy to dance. Finstock stops dead in his tracks. That was clever. Finstock wanders off, and Scott lets go of the poor boy and slips back into the crowd.

Lydia checks the time on her phone, then spots Allison near the refreshment table. Looks like Jackson's ditched her.

And here comes Scott. Allison doesn't look displeased to see him. They head out onto the dance floor together.

Lydia has to admit, they are kind of adorable.

She casts her gaze around the gym again. Jackson is nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

A few songs go by. Lydia checks her phone again. When she turns her attention back to the dance floor, Scott and Allison are gone.

"Shit," Lydia hisses. She scans the gym. They aren't here.

Lydia stands and trots down the bleachers and out the door. She saw Scott's car—well, his mother's car—in the rear parking lot, and heads in that direction.

She collides with Jackson, coming the other way.

"Excuse me," Lydia says, moving to sidestep around him, then hesitates. Jackson is pale and sweating, as shaken as he was at the police station.

"Mr. Whittemore?" she says. "Something bothering you?"

Jackson shakes his head, a quick, jerky motion. "No, just... ran into Chris Argent."

Lydia's eyes narrow. "Define 'ran into.'"

Jackson's mouth opens and closes, like he's having trouble making sound come out.

"Jackson. _What did you tell him?_"

Tires screech outside. Lydia pushes Jackson aside and runs for the door.

She cracks the door open and peers through. There's a red SUV and another car crammed into the space between two buses. Something—_Scott_—leaps up onto the roof of the nearest bus, then jumps down the other side and flees into the woods.

The cars back out. Allison emerges from one of the buses. Stumbles. Her father runs to catch her.

Scott's loose in the woods right now. Shifted. Stiles would want Lydia to follow him. But if Allison wasn't in the loop before, she sure as hell is now. And now the hunters know who the second Beta is. They'll be making their move soon.

Allison it is.


	12. Now You Will Find Peace

**Notes:** Well here we are, folks. My weird bastard child has finally grown up and left for college. Or whatever. Special thanks go to Dusty, whose merciless eye ensured that this fic wasn't nearly as terrible as it could have been. Also thanks to Poicephalus, for moral support/pinch-hit betaing/heckling. God forbid you two be brought in as character witnesses at my war crimes trial.

**Chapter Twelve: Now You Will Find Peace**

Lydia has been parked outside the Argents' house for the last twenty minutes.

They rushed Allison back here, after the incident at the school. Lydia wishes she'd planted a bug on Allison's dress when she had the chance. Or maybe bluebugged her phone. She _really_ wants to know what they're talking about in there.

Chris Argent emerges from the house, carrying a small suitcase. Pink piping. Probably not his. He stows it in the back of Kate's SUV and returns to the house.

Shortly after, Kate appears, carrying a bow case, and obviously trying to ensure she isn't seen. She puts it in the trunk of her car, next to the suitcase, and heads back inside.

Finally, Allison comes out of the house, her father leading her by the arm. Kate follows along behind them. Kate and Allison get into Kate's SUV.

Chris put a packed bag in the car. Kate put Allison's bow in the car. One thinks she's leaving. The other is taking her hunting.

Kate pulls out of the driveway. Once they're almost at the end of the block, Lydia starts her own car and follows.

ʘ

Stiles pulls up outside the Hale house and kills the engine. From here, the house looks empty.

He needs to be _sure_.

Stiles reaches into the back and grabs the bag marked "Plan B," setting it on the passenger seat. He grabs what he thinks he'll need, then gets out of the jeep.

The door creaks at a frankly annoying volume when Stiles shoulders it open. Nobody comes running. The house looks more or less the same as it always has, disregarding the bullet holes.

Nobody's here.

"Fuck," Stiles mutters under his breath. So Jackson dropped his fucking phone.

In the distance, a wolf howls, loud and long.

There aren't supposed to be any wild wolves in California. Stiles heads for the door. If that's the Alpha—

A second howl echoes through the house. Close. Very close.

Coming from beneath him.

ʘ

Something red flashes across Lydia's rear-view mirror. Normally that wouldn't bother her, only she's seen that exact same red three times now.

She's being tailed.

"Oh, you sneaky little bastard," Lydia hisses.

She's still following Kate's SUV. If Lydia tries to shake her tail, she'll lose track of Kate.

Well. Wherever Kate's going, her brother will want to see it, too.

Kate's SUV pulls up outside the Beacon Hills preserve. Lydia pulls over by the side of the road, far enough away that they won't see her. Kate and Allison get out, and Kate circles around to the back, tossing Allison the bow. They head into the woods together.

Lydia waits until they're past the treeline, then parks behind Kate's SUV, boxing it in. Stiles has the Plan B bag. She'll have to make do.

Reaching into the glove compartment, she grabs a spare magazine and shoves it into her pocket.

Then she gets out of the car and follows Kate and Allison into the woods.

ʘ

Really, Stiles should have guessed there were tunnels under the Hale house. The place is, quite literally, a wolf den.

The trap door in the basement dropped him into a network of winding, red-brick tunnels. There aren't any sharp turns down here. Stiles can't proceed as cautiously as he'd like to, so he keeps his sidearm drawn.

Stiles hears something moving in the tunnel ahead of him, just past the curve of the wall and out of his line of sight. Stiles creeps forward, gun raised.

Scott's standing in front of a big metal door. He sees Stiles and frantically waves at him to lower the gun, a finger to his lips.

Stiles holsters the gun. "What are you doing here?" he whispers frantically.

"This is where Derek's howl led me," Scott whispers back.

"That was _you_ howling?"

"Yeah," Scott says, looking pleased with himself. Then he shakes himself out of it. "Derek's in here. I can smell him. But there's somebody in there with him."

"Is this person armed?"

Scott shrugs.

Stiles steps back and examines the door. It's a big, rusty, sliding door. It does not look like a quiet door. If the guy inside hears this thing opening, and he has a gun, he'll definitely have the drop on Stiles.

This is what the Plan B bag is for.

Stiles puts his back against the wall next to the door handle, pulling the flashbang from his pocket. "Scott, on three, you're going to open the door a crack, then close it again. Got it?"

Scott nods.

"Okay. Derek, if you can hear me, uh... close your eyes."

Scott grabs the door handle.

"One... two... _three!_"

The door slides open about a hand's width with a _squeak_. Stiles pulls the pin and tosses the grenade into the room. Scott slams the door closed.

_Bang_.

"Open it," Stiles says, pulling the ASP baton from its scabbard next to his holster. Scott throws the door open.

There's an older man in the center of the room, a little on the short side but broad-shouldered and well built, swearing and pawing at his eyes. Stiles flicks his wrist to extend the baton and swings it forward into the guy's thigh.

The hunter screams and drops as his leg collapses under him. Stiles brings his knee up under the guy's jaw.

He drops like a stone.

Scott stares at Stiles. "Wow."

"Don't be too impressed." Stiles kneels and slams the tip of the baton against the cement floor. The baton collapses back in on itself. "In a fair fight, he would've kicked my—oh, holy god."

Derek is chained up to some kind of metal rack, shirtless. There's a mess of wires going from an AC/DC power supply on the nearby table to a set of probes attached to the spot above Derek's hip. He's conscious, but his eyes are glazed over, and he stares at Stiles like he's not sure he's really there.

Stiles rushes forward and gently removes the shock probes. The wounds start to heal as soon as the probes are out.

Oh god, those aren't handcuffs, they're _manacles_. Who even _has_ those? "Scott, see if you can find the keys, would you?"

Scott appears at Stiles' elbow, holding a keyring.

As soon as the manacles are unlocked, Derek's legs buckle. Stiles manages to catch him before he falls, gently lowering him to a sitting position on the floor. He feels Derek's hands fist in the material of his suit jacket, and tightens his grip, dragging Derek in closer.

"It's okay. I'm here."

Derek clamps onto Stiles like he's a lifeline, burying his face in Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply. Stiles kisses Derek's temple and holds him, babbling, "I've got you, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay."

Stiles doesn't even care that Derek can't hear him very well right now.

Scott hovers, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Stiles waves him in the direction of the table, where the hunters left Derek's shirt and jacket.

They manage to get Derek back into his clothes, and Stiles loops Derek's arm over his shoulder, heading for the door. Scott moves in to help. "I can carry him."

Derek growls.

"Or not," Scott says. He nudges the unconscious hunter with his foot. "What about this guy?"

"We'll call an ambulance once we're outside," Stiles replies. "Come on. Let's go."

ʘ

Scott leads them out the way he came in; the tunnels let out into the woods near the Hale house.

Derek's healing already, and can more or less walk on his own by the time they get outside. He keeps his hand on Stiles' shoulder anyway.

"Wait, wait... why aren't you keeping an eye on Allison at the dance?" Stiles says to Scott.

Scott shrinks into himself a little. "... Allison found out about me."

"She _what?_" Derek snaps.

An arrow strikes Derek in the shoulder. He hits the ground hard.

Stiles draws, putting himself in front of Derek. "Scott! Run!"

Scott tears off toward the house. One of the flashbulb arrows goes off by his head. He stumbles.

There are two women at the top of the ridge. Kate Argent advances on Stiles and Derek, pistol drawn, while Allison breaks off and heads in Scott's direction, nocking another arrow.

Kate stops about ten feet away from Stiles. "Hello, Agent Stilinski."

"Ms. Argent," Stiles replies. He can hear Scott and Allison arguing in the distance. "If you put the gun down and come quietly, I can pull some strings to keep your niece out of jail."

Kate says, "Pass," and pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Stiles in his right bicep. His returning shot goes wide, missing Kate completely, and he drops to his knees, pressing his hand against the wound. His gun falls from numb fingers.

Derek tries to struggle to his feet. Kate shoots him in the leg.

"What are you _doing?_" Allison screams.

Kate darts forward and kicks Stiles' sidearm out of his reach. "Tying up loose ends," she says, training her gun on Stiles.

"He's a cop!"

"And he pointed a gun at me. His laws aren't our laws, honey. We serve the greater good."

Derek grits out, "That would be the 'greater good' where you burn entire families to death in their own homes?"

Allison stares at Derek. "... What?"

Kate doesn't take her eyes off Stiles, glaring at him down the barrel of her gun. "Just an old rumor."

Stiles says, "Where'd you get that necklace, Allison?"

Allison puts a hand to the pendant. "... Aunt Kate gave it to me."

"I've got a witness who can link your necklace to the woman responsible for _that_," Stiles says, angling his head toward the house.

Allison looks at Kate, eyebrows knitted in confusion. "... You said we just catch them."

Kate raises the gun to Stiles' head. "And that's enough out of you."

Stiles closes his eyes. This is going to _suck_.

"Put the gun down, Kate," Chris Argent says.

Stiles' eyes snap open. Chris and Lydia emerge from the treeline, guns drawn. Kate's grip on the pistol tightens. "He's _working with them_, Chris."

"He's a federal agent, and he's human," Chris says. "We have a Code."

Apparently, Lydia's losing her patience. "That's enough of that," she snaps. "Everyone with the last name 'Argent' is under arrest! We'll sort the charges out later, but for now let's go with—"

Something charges out of the shadows behind Chris, knocking him off his feet.

Peter Hale pounces on Kate and clamps his jaws around her throat.

Stiles scrambles back, tripping over Derek as he goes. Derek stumbles to his feet and grabs Stiles' uninjured arm, putting himself between Stiles and Peter.

Kate's spine gives way with a _snap_. Peter raises his head, muzzle wet with blood, and bays in victory.

Allison lets out a choked sob. Peter drops Kate's limp body and turns on Allison, growling low in his throat.

Scott lunges at Peter. "_Stay away from her!_"

Peter bats Scott aside easily and pins him, snapping his teeth inches from Scott's face. Derek attacks from Peter's blind side. The three werewolves become a roiling, snarling mass of black fur and claws.

Lydia runs to Stiles. "How bad?"

"I think I'll live," Stiles gasps. "Peter just killed Kate. Jennifer would want to see that. She can't be far."

Lydia nods. "I'll find her," she says, and disappears into the woods.

Out the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Chris Argent train his gun on the three werewolves, still fighting.

"That won't help!" Stiles shouts at him.

"My daughter's in there!" Chris shouts back. Peter is between him and Allison. Stiles can see her, backed up against the porch. Her bow is drawn, an arrow nocked, but she's not firing.

She doesn't want to hit Scott.

Peter backhands Scott, who lands at Allison's feet.

Allison fires.

The first arrow hits Peter in the shoulder. The second misses him entirely and hits Derek instead.

Derek staggers. Peter gets one massive forepaw around Derek's throat, lifting him onto his toes.

"Mr. Hale!" Lydia yells. "I believe this woman's with you?"

Everything stops.

Jennifer Fitzgerald's hands are cuffed behind her back. Lydia's got an arm across her throat, gun trained on Peter.

Turning his head, Peter snarls at Lydia. Derek's arm snaps forward.

Peter freezes, then looks down at Derek's hand buried in his chest up to the wrist. He releases Derek's throat.

Derek bares his fangs at Peter and rips his hand free. A small, mangled piece of meat falls from his fingers into the dead grass.

Peter collapses.

Panting to get his breath back, Derek stares down at his bloody hand.

Stiles says, "Derek?"

Derek looks up.

His eyes glow red.

ʘ

Never before had Stiles considered how difficult it is to clear out an office alone and one-handed. Lydia's already on her way to Sacramento, where she and Jennifer Fitzgerald will catch a plane to HQ. He _could_ just leave everything for the local LEOs to clean up, but his mother raised a gentleman.

There's a knock on the doorframe. Stiles' eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he sees Derek standing in the doorway. "They let you in here?"

"I told the desk sergeant I had to report in with my arresting officer," Derek says, stepping into the office. "You weren't at the hotel."

"Checked out this morning." At the look on Derek's face, he adds, "I was gonna come see you before I left town. Honest."

"So you _are_ leaving, then."

"Yeah. Kate Argent's death wraps up the Hale case. Chris Argent claims he didn't know anything about the fire, _or_ your abduction, and we don't have anything that says he _did_, so that's the end of that. And Jennifer Fitzgerald's on her way to a holding facility in Virginia."

"She'll be tried?"

"Oh, hell yes. She didn't directly kill anyone, but she'll be charged with either conspiracy to commit murder, or murder via dangerous animal. We haven't decided yet."

Derek puts his hands in his jacket pockets. "... And what about me?"

Stiles starts piling up the papers scattered across Lydia's desk. "You killed Peter Hale in self-defense. We won't be pressing charges." He tosses the papers into a box and tries to tape it closed, but the tape gun is not his friend today.

Derek steps in to help. Once the box is sealed, he moves back, hesitant. "How's the arm?"

Stiles waggles his fingers from the sling. "Doctors say I'll retain full range of movement, once it heals."

"That's... good. Really good." Derek still has one hand propped up on the desk.

Stiles covers it with his own. "You okay?"

Derek looks down at the hand Stiles is holding; the same hand that ripped Peter Hale's heart out of his chest. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "When there were no other options." He sighs and rubs his thumb across the back of Derek's hand. "I know what you're thinking. No, killing Peter wasn't right. But it was necessary. You saved a lot of lives."

Derek nods, but doesn't look Stiles in the eyes.

Stiles takes a deep breath and says, "We should probably talk about the thing."

_Now_ Derek looks up, eyebrow raised. "'The thing?'"

"Yeah, the you-kissing-me thing. That thing."

"There's nothing to talk about. You said no."

"To you turning me into a _werewolf_, not—never mind, let me start over. You already know my track record with relationships a little bit, and I'm kind of a shitty boyfriend, and I talk too much except when it really matters, and then I don't talk at all, and I'm always working, and that's usually a deal-breaker. So, you know, full disclosure there. But if you're still interested after all that then I'd definitely be willing to, you know... oh, fuck it, come here."

Stiles takes his hand off Derek's, grabs the lapel of his jacket, and reels him in.

The kiss is slow, sweet; miles away from the frenzied mauling Stiles had been subjected to last time. Derek slips an arm around Stiles' waist, mindful of his injured arm, and murmurs, "Don't go," against Stiles' lips.

"I have to," Stiles says. "I need to report in at HQ, and then I've got another assignment. _But_..." Stiles brushes his lips against Derek's again, "I've got a _lot_ of vacation time I need to use up. And I might use some of that time to check in with the new Alpha of Beacon Hills."

"That's good to hear," Derek says.

"What—what is your face doing?" Stiles pulls back. "I've never seen your face do that before."

"I'm _smiling_, idiot."

"Well be _careful_, for god's sake. You might break something."

ʘ

The women of Thessaly nest in the branches of the World Tree, where they watch the Earth spin beneath them.

_So the wolf and the hunter are both dead, _says the youngest. _I suppose that's the end of it._

_'The end of it?' Hardly. Revenge is a cycle, sister._

_And the last scion has drawn the attention of those his greater. Earthly and otherwise.  
_

_So what now, then?_

_You say that as if there is anything we could do. We are gone from the world._

_And when the last of Lycaon's blood is spilled? His house will fade, and the Earth will be poorer for it._

_Only a little, sister. Only a little._

Ω


End file.
